Italians Cannot Hold A Candle to An Irish Wake

We should be skeptical about anyone who tells us 'I know the way and you don't.' -- a personality of iconic self-deprecation

This Hewlett Packard Pavilion is not particularly valuable. It is simply long lived and almost integral to my defeat in the inner city. My lungs, laboring in pain in the last hours before the opening of my fifty-eighth year, miraculously circumvented this morning in anxious combat with the crushing weight of Pennsylvania's nigger tow lines conjoined to my also sick family's relegation, are somehow extended by my outdated technologies. I am finished, why don't I just fold, go away and let respiratory hoses finish me off? Zone it out? I am not the only woman with cerebral palsy to die before the age of sixty over equipment error.  Trudy Richardson, the now absentee manager as it pertains to my environment, is my killer, and if the middle brow crowd wants to raise the alarm, if I cannot obtain justice for the duress under which she placed me, I will, emphatically, take matters into my own hands. My rental agent has crushed me to death because I raised my voice about its negligence, letting tenant relatives and others assault me with utter and blatant disregard, and now it gets to kill me because of ableism's panic? Not without me coming back at it in one last furious strike. Oh, I know hatred, you all know that, letting a former supervisor play me like tripe, but not like this, this desperate ferocity of no return. As for the computer, for the time being, I have shut updates off, and should have done it before, so I can work. I have too many virus systems uploaded to my drives, all that, and my ego still sits in my way: I cannot suffocate, not yet, but don't know how long that will last, if I have even another year, maybe that is luck. I don't know. I am stout, genetically obese by between forty to 60 pounds, and yes, smoked cigarettes aggressively, but never in my life have I been forcibly made so immobile for such a long time, and this bitch who has relentlessly persecuted me for over a decade is going to get hers. In the interim, I have to find out if I can skate by for a time on a cheap Chromebook.

I know one of the major flaws of this account is its embedded outcry, and yes, at one time I hoped maybe I could connect to others who could help me navigate out, but barring a good steroid to buy me time, there is no longer much out anything my reading public can do, unless you have a wheelchair accessible space and don't harbor the ambitions of an Ariel Castro. I suppose we're all stronger then we know, but one of the very simple rules of thumb to be counted: Everything breaks. There is always a point of no return.

Round Pegs in the Square

This Hewlett Packard is very old. I am having enough difficulties with it and Windows Ten cannot be installed. As of today, Microsoft stops supporting Windows 7, and it will be a little longer until I can afford a new device. I already know how ludicrous it is to believe engaging in homicidal impulses toward a section 202 building manager with a rote series of trained gestures is. Philadelphia has hundreds of these matriarchal browbeaters, and if I engage in any form of illegal aggression toward her, I only prove her point. The best weapon in her arsenal was my family's provincialism, and I have pretty well suffered enough, but even the police, who don't like 202 tenants, said Trudy Richardson's harassment toward me bordered concentration camp excursiveness. The company could have simply evicted me, and the black paraplegic above me, David, has far stronger foul odors on the 6th floor. I doubt he was assaulted by Protective Services and more, as was I.
So I fight, and maybe I get rid of a house nigger with owlish glasses from New Jersey with her alleged lupus. Maybe Corey Booker gets involved and says I cannot behave like a monster because Presbyterian Homes really hates the disabled. The beat goes on. The boss Trudy is afraid of, as in The Grifters Angela Houston terror, is a Director named Dulles. Bald, fat, black, corrupt as a horse's ass, I politely told him he was full of shit, and it was indicated to me that this cowed Trudy to the same degree that her tactics have me fighting for my life. If I do engage in illegal behavior toward this woman, and go to court, I doubt the judge will allow me to move for jury nullification