I have been out of sorts, I know, and make poverty tenant living worse than it is, most of the time. It isn't simply that I hate Riverside to the point of risking imprisonment, however. Poverty housing in Philadelphia is mostly the same, a cesspool, like its public school system, and Riverside is just that, a cesspool of petty vendettas and doilies, better than most of any other units I've experienced, but that is partly the point. Even if I let another municipal matron like Nakea dictate the terms of my existence, and look how gracious she appears in her portrait as the preening nigress, it becomes more of the same. It is not fair that my life ended in a major trauma at 37, only for the next 16 years to be browbeat because I've sustained systemic abuse and prefer eviction. Last year, I barely and mean barely, evaded eviction by Presby, and only haven't given notice because I don't know if I can find some sort of shelter I can handle, and I've had COPD attacks, now my molar nerves are throbbing. WTF would I go? The local libertarians can't help me, etcetera, and yet, I'm sick with rage; it will break me, eventually, and padre is now moving into his second childhood, subtly. He isn't Murdoch.
One thing is certain, however, those old B stock Roman empire films transmitted by local Delaware independent stations, are a riot. I do not really watch them, unless I suspect a modicum of historical truth, but what they lack in quality the certainly make up for in wardrobe. Perhaps I was crucified under Marcus Aurelius, or poisoned by the Medici, despite their flowering Renaissance. Even getting my shit together will never be enough. I've truly been broken, and I'm all to blame.
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