Depreciation

The Queen of the house represents the Christian virtue of mercy, which is different from the equitable justice allegorized in Britomart. Whereas equity returns to philosophical principles in order to ensure the defendant receives his proper due, mercy offers freely to redeem offenders who sincerely repeat their crimes.-- Poetry Foundation's rehabilitative sympathy for The Faerie Queene

My sister-in-law cannot convert my Office 7 files not in the cloud, and I droop. The only way I know how to defeat this on my own is to find my Office 7 CD, which is hopefully somewhere, hack my product key, install, then open said files in Office 365, and the only human being who probably desires to help me solve this with all his heart is a paraprofessional with whom my lifespan is alarmingly eclipsed, so hurry, get it all in, and there are worse things in life than misdirected denial, but a decent way to leash a man, to my surprise, is a thousand dollar piece of technical hardware. It is nothing new to wake up and feel rebellion with biology. Robert, in messenger: "I can't believe I'm 67!" "Forever young!" The dowager retorted in equal vein, as I go stomping around with I'm 56. But I am 56, and whether certain lines are blurred between regressive care, I was onto that as early as his first Wednesday with me, and something more, I remain restless, my retrenchment not least among the reasons for that, to be polite about what I mean, but you should know already. I mean, this man took a risk, because I wept, he wanted to console me, just as I've taken risks of late, running through every rationale while he takes me to school on the court. I do not want to be sexually manipulated because of depression and cynicism simply out of a misplaced fiduciary duty on his part, and yet we've been so close to taking each other that I am not simply frustrated, more than that, perplexed. He trusts me thus far not to can his ass and says he is in heat for various areas where we all know our erogenous zones live, and I'm his fucking job at the same time. He's guardian, family, brother, and yes, a man in my life who outlasted my particular talent for being unforgiving. And this, despite the fact I cannot cut him down. There are 1001 pathways to that but his zeal is a bit forcibly sealing my jaws and silencing my tongue-- not about the heavy petting-- but him, because he's the rare embodiment of a good man. I've always wanted that, but not due to his economic necessity. My cousin, equally scarred, asked why am I afraid if I believe I'm in love with him. I'd think the answer would be obvious. If and when he's ready to move on, who gets screwed, whether or not that literally happens? But as of yet, I am not sure I've grafted my own hybrid of apples and oranges. 
I'm 56, losing ground to technical folly and not a few unexpected ground balls. Do I wrest out some kind of commitment from an inner city minority that will make me self-conscious for the rest of my life? The anarchist in me isn't dead, trust me there.