A significant minority on social media doesn't understand my anger with sink and hook tactics, mindless links in which both parties don't pay attention. I am, first and foremost, of little use as a follower for investment strategists, especially when I'm forced to live on little over 200 dollars a month after I pay my charming rental subsidy and communications bill. I take a chance, and give the ambulatory world a glimpse into the sterile lives of urban impoverishment, and then, no one can handle it, getting a peek past my cerebral arguments, but so many of you expect me to read the same blandishments over and over again about social market models, and for now, I'm done. I am never going to restore what Philadelphia liberalism took away from me.
While my intuitive sense is I'm unfortunately too sturdy to die peacefully or suddenly or quickly, my ability to truly remain independent is nearly at its close. I can attempt suicide, hope I don't fail, or endure getting sucked back into a home, and more than half of you who follow me can't even remember that you followed an ailing disability journalist with her belching lava eruptions in the first place. The winter chills will undoubtedly pass. The first seasonal attack has already eased, without much more than coffee and Danish, but I am alone, tired, with battered equipment, and don't have the stamina for the next snap in the welfare net in my cruddy public housing studio.
I am done with you, with all of it, and yet, as vulnerable and weak and challenged as I am, for the last eight years of her tenure as nigger welfare queen, Trudy Richardson says, "then leave," and this spring, that is exactly what I'm doing, letting myself get sucked away, perhaps to be gang tortured like the boy in Chicago's video feed. So long people.
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