Mating Calls

I used to call this Hewlett Packard the old queen, and remain amazed it still works, and that I am not quite insane, but suppose we're getting there, aren't we? All my time, productivity, but I guess it does not matter. I could have worked some, on my Smith Corona. The disk drive for it failed a long time ago, but it still works in both draft mode, with small DOS screen, and as a typewriter, but I didn't move a muscle, barely read, and have to reinstall office, and then see what this latest fuckwit managed to save from the Toshiba, but I cannot win, can I? Just this much ahead on my debt, and I had to waste what little credit I have on a pc tech who has his own ass in arrears. It doesn't take much for many of us to become nothing once again, that quickly, not being savvy enough, like all off you, to just download office for free. 

I am being abused by a relatively new tenant named Dominic. I think he is Italian. He is stupid and belligerent, and I am going to have to file a harassment complaint, which will get me a transfer, but I do not know how much worse despair can get: I am near the end of what little functional independence I have, and the story of my adult life, from the age of 23 forward, is abuse in buildings managed by this senior living corporation. I feel perfectly justified in engaging in terroristic violence against Presbyterian Homes. Can I? No. Would I? Yes, so by all means, report me if you wish, but their contract with HUD needs to be severed.

33 years of my life, and no, I can not fault traditional academic instructors, even though Jerry was right. I should have never transferred to the city. But I had no idea Philadelphia was going to pulverize me to the extent it has. Dominic's issue? Who knows. He is sick, uncouth, thinks he is more street wise than he is, and singled me out, I can only surmise, because the word on me is that I am a skeevy loudmouth. He looks like my Uncle Thomas's more brutish younger brother, bald with a black grey  ring of hair just above the ear. I do not care that he doesn't like me. It is the public aggression he displays. Taking it from niggers is one thing, but a Broad Street bully is another, and the company is going to get waves because he is interfering in my ability to do normal things in public. Talk on the phone, or with the technician. It is impossible for him to ignore me, I mean impossible, and if I drag the police into it, what can they do? A restraining order isn't going to get a mentally ill cancer patient to cease and desist. 33 years, and I still believe I can be competitive in the marketplace.

I am literally ready to roll out the damn door and find a place to die, and surely, I have the strength I have to carry like Swarzenegger, to pull myself up despite a neutron star barbel on my sternum. I am not far away from threatening this bastard's life. It is a little more than that. Online access vulnerability is nearly as crippling as my brain damage. Since I sustain few true friendships, let alone able to consider myself salable to Viagra men, I have no idea what keeps me alive. Curiously, however, my commode transfers are more confident, as if I'm actually returning to work.