Despite the fact that yours truly bends and wipes after inadvertent miscues with feminine urinals, the other day I had a choice: pivot, or face loss of bowel control. Despite echoes of lifelong slip ups, the dowager took the pivot, and much like a baller on the field, it might have gone either way, but, utilizing the Jazzy castor as a counterweight, things prevailed in her favor. The mechanics of age and tremors on wet tile aren't going to change if the line is crossed, and Presby initiates eviction: as a practical matter, I cannot functionally wander the street, so, behind as I am on my escalation plan, technical homelessness is moot, barring I do not get killed, authority would force me somewhere in relatively short order. I still comprehend this, rationally, as an event I shouldn't force on myself, but I cannot bring myself to comply with the rules. It will take me a nearly insurmountable force of will, and thus you have the end result before of 32 years of life with minority modals, on the basis of the fact that in 86, I had no where else to go, but to the twin Diamond Park unit on Page Street. If I find myself out in a back alley being raped by an alcoholic with the clap, that purportedly would put Miss Richardson's contiguous duress in a different light, but not in the seams of my scar tissue it doesn't; I'm very nearly starting a racial incident with every black resident who attempts to engage me. It's virtually an intolerable bind for me psychologically. I've already written off the corporate office for southeast PA, in Spring Mills, however.
My prestige jobber is starting to take shape, in my new adage learned via Mr. Tucker: if you're not getting paid, take your fucking time. I have to tie in some bits and ends from Mueller's "expanding" areas of interest, Manafort's kickbacks so much more aggrandized than inner city extermination of best and bright invalid minds, minds which readily concede mild conflict: I can see my way through certain spaces to defend Trump some of the time, diagramming the gaps in his aphasia, but he won't slow down long enough to give me a reasonable accommodation. At the same time, despite utter loathing for Clinton, he makes me ashamed, on any number of levels. I've carried pain all my life: before, during, and after histrionic adhesion to academics, but I know, as well, my reactionary warfare has made an irrefutable stamp, my last vestige of any decency to be concentrated in love of the feline, despite undercurrents of weariness with our pet children.
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