DWTS in Obsolescence of Product

no one talks like that--a wheelchair mechanic

Death is the most carnivorous of any ecological process, particularly when it is embodied in John McCain’s overly long victory lap for a heroism plucked like a thorn out of a tenuous policing action, his emaciated skin all but fused to his now skeletal visage, his torture as a prisoner of Asians on the peninsula referenced as a secular hagiography but never discussed, unless it be by biographers able at one time to solicit the details. The dowager doesn’t know how his forearms were broken for the near term intelligence desired by the charlies of Ho Chi Minh’s collective nationalism, nor why the bones weren’t set properly. Nearly two decades ago, when his candidacy was a viable property, slight details of his personal grooming needs were mentioned in profiles, and Dick Polman’s skepticism of the Arizona Senator’s maverick label have certainly been refuted by the malignant glioma currently disrupting his brain function. While no one doubts McCain’s political skill, failed nominee or not he is a national figure, a patriot in the truest sense, willing to wear blinders for the sake of it, to strike at adversaries with inflammatory rhetoric, clever barbs which swayed the 08 electorate toward The Invisible Man, his speculative presidency, had the enthusiasm not gone to the paper doll of the Neutral zone, would not have engendered history. The man pulls on the reigns with far too much frequency, coaching and scolding from the bench, just another centrist, whereas I would have vanished into the wasteland of American indigence. Thursday, October 10^th, I packed my electronics, intending to depart my chaotic destitution, and as I was able to predict, my old Quantum shorted out. It is now in the hallway, Trudy Richardson’s chastisements forthcoming. With tremendous struggle, I purchased a bucket seat model on the blind, from an ever harried vendor. They are all the same, and I am still helpless, too weary to adapt to a swivel seat, calculating I’ll survive a failed transfer to my bed rather than the toilet, if I transfer at all. No more money to restore the independence I had with other models, barely able to get my ass on the vinyl with the foot stool upended. This is helplessness, my mind still intact, a 48 hour hospital stay indicating I am a healthy plow mare, one which spins our modern caste systems round and round, low skilled black technicians, cafeteria workers, social services, nurses, chaplains who I sent running with adept verbal fury. Physicians play very little part in this. The same can be proffered for rehabilitative medicine. McCain’s prominence is a constraint. His peers and admirers offer a modicum of delicacy to a dying man, one whom impatience might sweep off the stage: retire to a lucrative hospice suite already and allow your state’s legislature to fulfill its one constitutional function not abrogated by progressive amendments, and appoint your replacement, his heroism as much a construct as it is genuine. I really have to shit, thrown out with all lack of finesse. I may not survive attempting something different, as opposed to a lateral transfer, but medical model hierarchy isn’t as suave as what the industry serves as a daily aperitif. The cracks in the wall aren’t casually dismissed, and Shaun Murphy’s libertarian definition of himself echoes mine, but centralized institutionalism will take care of my dystopian vision of humanity. It won’t take too long. The Commonwealth of Pennsylvania is one of the origin territories, and it is strangling itself to death with its socialized governing structure. I weigh my will to survive on the minute, and I am going to do something which isn’t done: my address is 158 N 23^rd Street, Riverside. If anyone can stop by just for a few minutes, to stand by, no lifting, ring me. 267-207-5455. It is very temporary, and I prefer you not be black. I wouldn’t write this if my willpower wasn’t telling me to try to hang on.