I could be running the rent downstairs in my bare feet and my stained beige skirt, in violation of the dress code. I could be going to bed, having sucked two Vuse cartridges back into my system, and instead, I am just the dago who keeps getting kicked. Liberty Resources wasted no time soliciting a law firm to threaten me, this after years of institutional abuse, breach of contract, toxic environment at their hands, and I? What am I going to do? Probably get arrested after the holiday, going to jail to experience even worse instances of being the prime mud crab in the dish. Oh, no one cares, when it's me, what I've been through, no one, not that I haven't tried a wee little, politicians notwithstanding, legal aid, ACLU. The only thing anyone sees is how angry I am, and so they get the Presbyterian Corporation, with its financial collusion with the Department of Housing and Urban Development, to back down, as I weaken, and weaken, urinating with increasingly diffident aim into a broken disposable urinal, even without the attendant, still getting abused by an attendant, and so this is what I do, martyr myself on an obstinacy only as obdurate as blood pressure allows in a 53 year old woman with strange accretions of psoriasis under her thighs, but hey, this is the oxygen of social media, and a great piece of trash for Nick if he wants it, perhaps an item for Tony Stiles to air as well.
There is a little thrill all the same, one defiant spastic greasy and weirdly drying matron, spiraling down against the system which invariably crushes us all. There is no Grisham crusader here willing to sit and take my whole story, point by point, just the blood in my face, the social fear at my rage, absent the reconciliation barbecue with the vindicated client, wounded, but at peace. I have no idea what that is, as it involves going through more than you care to stand. I told the lawyer I'd use the press. And so I shall. Let it play.
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