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weight of Pennsylvania's nigger tow lines conjoined to my also sick family's relegation, are somehow extended by my outdated technologies.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.