As
I have predicted, ceding near total control to state welfare has ended whatever
eclipsing independence I’ve clung to, and this power chair has given me a
bedsore; it isn’t serious, not just yet, but if I’ve written it once I have
written it a thousand times, saying no to attendant care kept me healthy, and
had the Jazzy not failed I could have held on a while longer. Despite my
tremors, arthritis, me being me, if I can extract or bully a better chair out
of the Commonwealth, I may yet tell the visiting nurses and case managers to
fuck off, then file a criminal complaint against Presby, and drive off into the
sunset. I think some consumers misunderstand me: I do not believe in
independent living centers, and even when I thought I did, in the back of my
mind, I had more than a few red herrings. My personal loyalty to Linda Dezenski
held me in check. She ascertained that herself.
I
have stopped living the pain she caused me, even though I’m rehashing it here again,
perhaps as a footnote. It was all mostly stress. My blow out was contingent on
many factors, but those weren’t sexual. And my burdens have overtaken my stamina
to really care about shoving a pogo stick up her ass. It wouldn’t change the “great blow” she landed. All things being equal, I’ll be back later this evening.
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