Dick's Torch

We all have bad days, and the Jazzy's battery memory, despite all my precaution, is on the way down. This is not a machine worth repairing, but caramel bitch started terrorizing me during my first equipment failure, and I cannot do it again, not with her nor her bull dykes, and the stress weighs me, vanishing in pain and out of the way because I left internal medicine and refuse to go back to Jefferson. This seems to make the brutality of High Castle applicable. I am in mid stride on S1, E3, with one operable ear plug to match my "bad" ear on the right. My left, which was my better ear drum, either has a permanent wax affliction, or lost sensitivity the last time I was actually on my bath chair. My acumen can only compensate for so much, and I'm telling you what I said years ago: staying at Riverside is destroying me. Linda Dezenski never fully understood what her conduct toward me did, truly leaving me without any allies. I have never heard one disability advocate, ever, systemically examine independent living corruption and suggest reforms. It's difficult because at one end of the spectrum you have Krauthammer, the crippled shrink who still plays policy doctor, and on the other end people like Cherry, barely in the world, and then Joe Delesio, the savant who imitates normal until he exposes his idiocy, and me, the outcast, terrorized by Africans who jump ship out of guilt, or stay on because they are as thick as SS guards in a New York skyscraper. I am going to die as hard as I've lived. What the fuck can you do?