Fin, with Brisk

"You can't handle this." --Gabourey Sidibe

How little we actually have to say about eschatology at the end of the day. This always comes back to me, even as I can barely pull myself up on the dull sky blue mattress, as old as my anguish enveloping itself around me at Riverside, the beaten, rusted, Sears Roebuck mattress courtesy of my mother's judgment in buying me a metal daybed that rocked like a tin can. Grotesque little mattress, but I cannot just get another spring coil twin, or a piece of hospital bed foam whose width would collapse too low. It has to be right so that I can pivot on, then push up to pivot off, and this I can discuss, the barren aesthetics of government socialism, not that padre did any better, had I stayed in Ridley Park. He built steep wooden ramps, a plastic shower stall, had violent arguments with me over pubic hair on my washcloth, now he is nurse to his dead wife's nursing colleague, twenty times as sick as the puss gassing out of my colon, due to my respiratory issues, other secrets. I cannot keep up, but neither could an attendant; they'd walk, confronted with pudding, the stench of post-menopausal decline. Those of you who can walk might ask, if you dared, what the fuck do I want? You aren't functionally ambulatory. Everyone gets old. You got screwed, badly. You take too many things to heart.

Okay, but I never wanted this, in the sense that what limited fulfillment I might have had would have been from professional accomplishment, and now this is nearly beyond me, even if my poverty insists that I have to persevere. Fuck what Inglis House writes on its site. If I am legally forced into it than that is tantamount to the games the English aristocracy played, tossing any viable claimant to the throne in a dungeon like The Tower. The very minorities I so freely disparage have mental health breakdowns from working there, in significant numbers, and yet what can I say? Collegiate peers aren't kept. Most of my disabled peers aren't friends, and those who might have been remain faithful to the circumscribed segregated empowerment bullshit which is indeed bullshit when HUD is treated like the plague by private property owners. I can never knowingly trust another lesbian, and what Josie represents is an apostasy, unless religion is to become essentially meaningless. Maybe this is a bug, and it too shall pass, but my life was in no way lived with the compensations most whites expect. I'm destitute, with no people whom I even so much as like, or care to engage, around me, and the only way I can avoid the red death in the castle is to end it on my own terms.