Even when I earned what might be considered a decent supplement under my former contracts, I was never much for speed writing, and have since developed a tendency to over-dramatize when I fail, since I believe my zeal usually overrides the weaknesses any voice has. Getting your ass kicked by an admirable editorial voice has positive demerits. I'm trying so hard to return to established media platforms I'm killing myself with the effort, in addition to revising my resume and applying for five jobs in succession. I am not in full blown dementia, not yet. It is my landlord's power, feeding my anxiety, and my age makes me rush. I want to remind my viewers that this monster has been my only landlord since I was forced, naturally, to vacate Temple's campus. I ricocheted to my aunt's row home, which was unsustainable. I am sure Marie remembers, which is why she out dramas me. I have seen horrible horrible things under Presby's stewardship, and I'll never stop being pissed off.
It may be cheap that I denigrate the current bran-brain that runs Riverside. She cannot fight back, but I never signed up to have management virtually move in with me; at Diamond Park's location, it may have been mildly less pressing, but the violence and destabilization make minority collective stricture, responsibility as a social constraint, rather moot when blacks were killing each other and killing the pets of girlfriends on a cyclic basis. I should not have to evict myself simply to get movement, but this is what it is coming to. For the liberals who want me to mitigate in civil objective speak, I hate Trudy Richardson because she never, ever stops. She is like a cobra. If she cannot humiliate me one way, then she has subordinate Debra Horne threaten me through a terminally ill aunt on Prozac. I cannot keep living here. I cannot, because it will become a self fulfilling prophecy. Please, just please help me leave. I'm begging, anyone. I have no money left to speak of.
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