Towelettes For Allergens

You had better apologize man!-- my fraudulent paramour on the subject of flaming my family on Facebook

Only writers and authors who are truly dedicated to their work can understand the inimical frustration of always losing ground to the chaos of limited mobility. How I got to Diamond Park from the aunt’s rowhome and the vaunted dormitories of the sprawling urban campuses which were unforgiving in the transverse, I mercifully cannot remember, but getting to Riverside from Diamond Park in 1994, that was buck a day with poppa, losing much more than manuscripts and textbooks. He left me in the middle of the floor, abandoned me and my 2005 deceased cat Oliver, cursing, a rickety bedframe left as it was, I had to sit in an armchair most of the night, lost a day of work, and not much has changed since, even though back then, the manager of this nut house was a white woman named Peggy, and she had nothing to do with the egalitarian games between me and the other manager, Terri Way. I can’t put those losses on Presbyterian Homes and its fraternal collusion with HUD, but everything else? Aside from an internet addiction and my asinine marital affairs, and whatever lie I’m engaged in now in my charming tug of war between a scurrilous spastic bigot and her minority ball and chain, yes, all my losses are directly attributable to Riverside, and it is a lie, with this caregiver, except for the incidental chemistry, an accident at best. I’ve let it go, though Galahad and I are still encoding, a freight car moving with inimitable rumblings. Only in the dowager’s wondrous solar eclipse can she play okay fuck the nigger nurse and still loathe everything about Ice Cube and Barber Shop and African American norms. I’m worn out, bored, and past the desire to assert myself on his body. We’re playacting a relationship, like Jonathan Rhys Meyers playacting the fortuitous husband who got away with killing his mistress in Allen’s stark post-Mia Farrow project, Match Point. African Americans could never make such a devastating film as this, one which exposes the underbelly of Caucasian privilege as hollow when we discover we cannot have it all, punishing my 56 year old body so I can post, make sure the work the technician salvaged will be safe, get my collections published, then honestly, I am done. My sister-in-law rebelled, the dowager is all gloom and doom while she is at the mall with her granddaughter. Well, I cannot go to the mall anymore, unless I plan it with the dark knight in question, and I can’t live like that, even if I care about him, despite my toxic psychology. I wept, on April 15^th, because I had never been so in a man’s arms as it might have once mattered, when I was young, in all that longing, I never had anything last long enough, and Frank? His disability regressed him, I never wanted him, and here, I asked a provider for a male aide. I never intended to feel a physical attraction for him, wind up having such a battle about sex over fifty. It is not enough, not if I cannot reclaim my level of independence and self-determination. It’s unlikely.