El Nino Effect

"Do you trust me Louis?"-- Augustus Brew, silicon archetype

The abbreviated version of my limited interactions with Cecil Morales can be summarized as follows: I joined his Catholic discussion group on Yahoo, and he then returned the favor by joining Disability Arts, which still hangs like a thumbnail, and then we went to email. I have no reason to believe he wasn't who he claimed to be, that pictures of him rough housing his son weren't a father with his boy, or that he wasn't Argentinean. We talked on telephone. I dangled my cunt like a trollop, and Josie Byzek, as I've written with past scathing bitterness, lashed out at him publicly, for motives I have already surmised: Give me an inch and I talk the length of the turf, I pull on people, and give little thought to telling lesbians wrapped up in the belief in Jesus Christ that they're going to hell. Did I email her that? No, but her insistence on her right to religious communion is blasphemy, and this may have gnawed on her subconscious.

I was paid in full. His insensitivity troubled her, but not I, and what he had wasn't looks. It was intellect, and this is what Miss Byzek disrupted: I could, at one time, talk to Cecil about ideas. I wanted that more than any worries over dangling and impotent cartilage, but what, now, can I do? I look haggard. I'm mentally beaten, struggling with my grandfather's bowel issues, anxiety, agitation, subsistence, and Frank Versante? Frank and I looked the part, but we had no real connection other than prurient groping, which ceased long before his death, almost a year ago. We were always disconnected, never into each other, despite his claims he loved me. That wasn't the case. He was just a dirty old bastard. I punished him, and pushed him. Made him do things, refused to accept that he wanted his helplessness, wanted his infantile indulgence. Now I'm alone, in the middle of the January thaw, fighting panic. I can cave in again, recertify this April, barring any catastrophic changes to HUD's policies, but it is not the unknown elements of the Trump Administration feeding my fear. It is rather the knowledge that I am not going to last another year in this building, and I'm at a loss. Psychiatry will, if it comes to that, merely invalidate me, nothing more. It will not fundamentally alter the livid hatred with which I'm struggling, the consequent difficulty of putting all this aside, focusing on work. I've nothing to offer an attorney, or an attorney's firm, beyond contingency; I cannot expect anything from my family, and even less from digital networks. I can wade my way through welfare intake, just make the call, but I'd drive away another fifty attendants, no matter how hard I try. Some of them may victimize me again, and I already know how much worse it can get. If I wrote these two paragraphs though, I suppose more can be coaxed. The sin, the grave sin in the back of my mind, that charming plan, I fear the suffering it would cause me, so much more suffering for such deplorable acts of impulse which put me in niggerland, which made me a poor old quad the President elect would satirize, a public spectacle of diminution. Pure Genius gets a small bump for giving an ALS sufferer an arc, without examining the moral issues of personal dignity in the face of such debilitation.