Who, me?

I of course post better when I dig up my web sites and take my time in Word, which I still hate but cannot afford the upgrade to Corel, but my aunt just yelled at me that I'm spoiled and I'm going to wind up in the street for upbraiding federal housing contracts with hypocritical corporations which shield both of my building owners, Diamond Park and Riverside. So I wind up in the street, fully cognizant of the fact that social media will not rush to my rescue. I get that, and also get that the street just leaves me for what I am, vulnerable carrion that EMS will scrape up off the surface of something somewhere, eventually, and I get it too that my father has lost everything after nearly sixty decades of busting his hump.

He was a good provider and doesn't deserve the tragedy of his life, anymore than I do mine for being an obstinate fool, but for however long my access to a platform lasts, I am a victim of black corruption, shielded by housing authority statutory requirements. Some weeks ago, my physiology under strain, I roared at Trudy on my cell that I wanted to know what her employer was going to do to mitigate my trauma, and rushed the office, and got a dose of black team tag:

"There is no Diamond Park." What exactly do these women take me for?

They later dropped the gag, but just because hip hoppers are now policing my tweets, this doesn't mean I do not have legitimate grievances with a rental agent which operates withing a classification which by design creates an expendable class (section 202 age requirements) under which I've lived my entire adult life. In 07, whether to strike back at ADAPT activists or not, PHA allowed those rental agents under 202 subsidy to stop accepting ADA tenants. Glorious. If I still had my salary I'd have shaken my booty and gave Ms. Horne the finger on my way out the door. But as a pauper skimming the surface on just over 7k a year, my placement options are even more restricted. I talked to the receptionist at Toomey's Philadelphia office politely this afternoon; his campaign headquarters is elsewhere.

Liberals would say I'm screwing myself by aligning my anger with the Senator's reactionary boundary lines. I doubt it, because liberalism, hiding under piss poor interfaith excuses, seemingly cannot accept accountability. I am a victim of three inappropriate sexual incidents, if you would like to call it that, one toxic environment out of a disability center, an aggravated assault, institutional abuse, and then state assessing agents, twice after a previous manager banned me from the dining service. In exactly what sense is the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania operating to serve my best interests as a disabled woman over 50?

I have four options, as I see it, 

1. Stay here in the merry land of African American minstrels and be grateful for a paraprofessional bed bath as an eventuality while I lie to myself about re-matriculation;

2. Hasten my demise in a shelter

3. Go insane at Inglis House

4. Enact my suicide plan

Fifth option suggestions people? Find an Ariel Castro I can live with, perhaps?