Twitter Has Bookmarks Now, imagine

He, stroking my hair: You don't know that you can't be independent. You've got a new chair, can't you be happy?
The dowager, "No," stifling a petulant tear.

He wants me to be happy, presumably Samsung and ATT do too, finding some intrinsic relevance to tackle my pain in a phone of which I grasp about a tenth of its function, and rather than dwell on my inability to be at my ease with my own self-worth, I put Mainline Medical’s tilt chair on full speed and smashed into the plaster paris covering the wall in the hallway, the therapist throwing a wobbly, and my attendant of too much gargantuan heart blaming the dictator, as we call the therapist. The man, as a sexual distraction, is over for me, and has reverted to just being an asshole in the black male category, the favorite denigration of powers that be in Los Angeles, if Bosch is any indicator, so I’m still basically libertarian by instinct, if nothing else, as the jaws of life wait to disarticulate my rotary cuff, tendons and fat leaking bloodily from my shoulder. This has taken me six weeks to realize there isn’t a male on the face of the earth whom I’d desire openly who’d in turn want me, but can I fucking work anyway? No, unless I start from scratch, all over again, and you’ve heard this all before but I get angry anyway because he refuses to let me say it’s over or it isn’t because his cure for my depression is contact with him, after a now muted and petty fashion, and this will go on every fucking day, our shit in each other’s noses, contingent on his lousy eating habits and my impaction. The chair keeps me a foot off the ground, if not more. I’ve already written my death warrant, despite cousin Pam’s consolation. I’ve utilized her for solace, and she doesn’t understand his tambourine jiggles anymore than I do, up one day and down the next, and oh yes, he cares, no doubt of that, with my five wheelchairs in this fuck-ass studio, on a roll here, aren’t I? He cares about the thousand dollar Samsung, the wheelchair, but making love? The flavor of this turgid Monday: that’s too easy. I already told him, after that memorable April 15^th, that I’d hate myself for winding up a nigger’s lover, more recently sent him my diary page telling him to go fuck himself, nothing sticks, nothing makes him reorient, and yes, if he yields and I knead my knees into him and pull him down, he’s going in, and that, conversely doesn’t make any sense to me as the slatterly lass shooting up flares with him every afternoon, with his untutored but overzealous dedication to my welfare. I’d be grateful for it if I could work, if I had a reason to live beyond the fact that he grasps my shins, slides me down the deplorable mattress, slides my buttocks on the cushion, sits me up, then spins my legs, after I wash my pubic hair. We’re a literal horse and buggy. Oh, the disabled community would wave me back in, hello there, what did you expect? Not that I would let myself be so far subsumed, that hole I blasted in the hallway as much an omen as accidental. I don’t call this living. Would any of you?