In
the differential between being helpless and being rendered helpless, it is
interesting to note that the keystone for Magee Rehabilitation Hospital was
laid in 1982, while I was zipping around the borough of Ridley Park and the
city of Chester, oblivious, on that mainly picturesque campus, of the sterile
fate which lie ahead as part of the Jefferson Health network. Magee’s masonry
is still relatively young, just shy of forty years, the front line, in
Philadelphia, for spinal injuries, I only ever penetrated here to be fitted, as
my closed circuit institutionalization began in 1972, not that this insolent
and glowering little vixen could know this, with her spitfire blond strands,
uneven stare. She could not hope to travel through my varied gateway of sexual
molestation at the hands of African minorities, vaginally penetrated, as if I
were nothing more than a terrorized marsupial dispensed for use on the forearm
of privileged schoolboys. She deserves to be slapped across the face, this
single syllable expression of umbrage and bloodthirsty xxxxx’es, and perhaps
she realizes, the little cunt, that a spastic such as I calls out the cannon,
already in prison, with nothing to lose in the deploy of the big guns.
She isn’t
much of an adversary in her bristle.
Ellen
De Generes, conversely, probably would comprehend these rivulets of scar tissue
in the guise of my violent stepfather, abusing one and all in my whore of a
mother’s household. I suppose I fled, like a boomerang, while Ellen dispenses
with femininity altogether. This cross dressing transvestite enthusiasm actually
has a long undercurrent in vaudeville going back to the Victorian era. The
disability law firm from Maryland, following me in a brief subterranean
exchange, may be hungry enough to take legal action against the vendor Mainline
Medical, presided over by my uncle, Louis Cristinziani, but what good is that
in a burning vertigo on the verge of collapse?
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