When
I could still enjoy solitaire as a form of recreation rather than psychological
duress, some of my favorites were the two deck game, St. Helena, and the small
table game, Four Seasons. I made Four Seasons harder than it is on Warfield’s
software, allowing only one move on the tableau per pile. I won rarely. Another
was Hit or Miss (or Roll Call), a simple count and discard game, Accordion, and
oddly enough, Perpetual Motion, which is a simple pattern game which can last a
long time. I would not recommend playing it on the device, in my teenage mind
which had no idea I’d plummet back into this distraction at this age, not
helping myself. I have to wean myself away from all this awhile, upset that I
allowed Karina to prey upon my sympathies, giving her money to wash my hair.
Instead of being conscientious about the matter and giving me advance notice
that her mother would be entering hospice, she took my money without finishing
what she started, flimsy woman. I read this a long time ago in her and knew
better and the Muslim, who is up in arms that I’m ditching TLC even though I’ve
told her this for weeks, won’t do it, and my father’s ex attendant, whom I said
I was going to hire on my dime, won’t shut the fuck up, so much so I’m having
second thoughts about honoring my verbal assurances to her. She lost her mother
too. “When Momo calls what you going to say?”
This
is Saran, the big African child who cleans my stool five days a week. What does
she think I’m going to say? I am a racist
Momo and I’m sick of your accents and skin color, sick of not being able to
have any time to myself, at all. I may not be dying, but my strength is gone,
and all I have is my mental capacity struggling against my mechanics, not even
positive I can trust my uncle’s company to restore my independence just a
little. Mike altered what he sold me, but I shall never be fully functional in
this machine, and it may be too late; fine, but I am losing my ability to cope.
In Philip K Dick’s Electric Dreams, this peels off under your thumbnail like
mica, a sad series, aptly casting Terrence Howard and his moral rectitude,
carrying the burden of incendiary individuals like myself on his back. For me,
this is going to bed early. I will make edits tomorrow after the Jewish nurse
dashes off. She has achieved nothing in terms of making things better. I am
under no illusions about moving on, what I’ll continue to face.
No comments:
Post a Comment