"If you don't agree with them, they turn on you." -- an associate reading my anti-homosexual posture
At my age, attraction to the opposite sex is another ball game, particularly when feminine hygiene is complicated by indigence, symptoms, and the only contours available on your palette range from caustic cynicism to moral outrage: Whenever Black Adder and I are alone before the anarchists show up, I am uncertain as to whether the Libertarian group leader and I are engaged in mortal combat over progressive disillusionment or conservative fealty. But we had a bead on each other Tuesday evening, as I told him about a denigrating incident with a black security guard over the holiday, and heard myself with a small degree of shock using a slur on a public sidewalk, uttered full of hurt, and Adder objecting, "Go after what they do, not who they are!" And I was ready to eat the kid for lunch with the retort that what we are often informs upon what we do. Then we let it pass.
I am not sure how I've become this person, but what contributed to it is the greater crime of Brian Coleman's platitudes in 2007 during Riverside's horrible renovations. I nearly went berserk during the whole affair, and wound up physically injured. The only *help,* I received was my father driving over, looking at me sitting with Erik, the pink mafia transsexual with its failed internship past, and buying me a tasteless sandwich. It isn't that I do not have the acuity to understand that Coleman was a fucking fool who wanted to support me. I worked for Liberty Resources too, but I was surrounded by Trudy Richardson, in her beauty queen phase, Tarmara, Trudy's second who moved up, Brian, and my so called coordinator, Jenelle. I was weeping bitterly, wishing I could torture my former supervisor, and her invisible abandonment, and I have a black guy raining promises like Skittles, and no one, not I, or any of the other females, shutting him down, in addition to the fact that Presby just keeps treating me like a zoological freak. Erik, the mighty advocate, can't get involved; his dementia is advanced, in any case, and if anyone put the brakes on it for me it was possibly Councilman Denny O'Brien, mere speculation, until the next round.
Coleman should have been accountable enough for his behavior to get me the help I needed; he wasn't, as is typical of the disability center. This is how Philadelphia, and most American inner cities, kill people with negligence, and I do not even have a criminal record.
Showing posts with label brian coleman. Show all posts
Showing posts with label brian coleman. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 9, 2015
Saturday, August 29, 2015
Range Assertion
"Get involved," but if you don't agree with independent living center paradigms you'll have to sue me-- Thomas Earle
If anyone is undecided about Stewart's range, count spastic in for doubt, as I am not entirely certain what range signifies, as one could reasonably ask why Jean Luc Picard couldn't have been British, with French relations, My favorite episode of Next Generation is Family, and I'm apparently not the only viewer who felt its strength, for it is in part a teleplay about handling disappointed expectations, adversity, violation, learning to live with it, even if sometimes we cannot, which is the lesson of Black Snake Moan, embedded in Ricci and Timberlake's characters. "Family," resolves itself, since Stewart still cared about his job, but Picard's depth of feeling is saved for the first Borg movie. As dor Stewart's diabolical tyrants, crippled or not, they remain one dimensional. For poignancy, it is his small ensemble part in Lady Jane Grey, where just for a moment, he displays the magnanimity of the doomed. Is Stewart Macbeth?
The Thane is the most haunting, of all the tragedies, Macbeth seems the most psychologically corroded by overreach, akin to yours truly and the ambulatory world, but I just don't see Stewart so tortured by culpability. I concede I don't know if the play available to view.
Tom Earle is an unlikely adversary, the type of boy-man women coddle with food and St. Christopher medals. He is perfectly happy playing tag with his walking stick with baby fat toddlers. I'll admit I am harassing his voice mail, daily. I've said what the fuck forcefully and recounted numerous follies by his staff, the people who work at these places are inept to the point that my own skills have corroded in psychic pain. Brian Coleman was Earle's second to last housing counselor before the center lost it's budget, and in the world of the way things work in Black Cities USA, my rental manager Trudy Richardson followed brother Coleman of Maryland around, never completed any repairs. The same Coleman who said "Liberty can help with the move," during the renovations, and then told me, the erstwhile former consultant, "Liberty doesn't offer that service." My assigned coordinator never opened her fucking mouth, and nothing ever changes with this paradigm.
He is gone, but I hate the little dodo with a vengeance, injured as badly as I was that year, but as ugly dykes are wont to say, these centers are all the disabled have. When we're ousted, even if homily but not persuadable to lesbianism,what then?
If anyone is undecided about Stewart's range, count spastic in for doubt, as I am not entirely certain what range signifies, as one could reasonably ask why Jean Luc Picard couldn't have been British, with French relations, My favorite episode of Next Generation is Family, and I'm apparently not the only viewer who felt its strength, for it is in part a teleplay about handling disappointed expectations, adversity, violation, learning to live with it, even if sometimes we cannot, which is the lesson of Black Snake Moan, embedded in Ricci and Timberlake's characters. "Family," resolves itself, since Stewart still cared about his job, but Picard's depth of feeling is saved for the first Borg movie. As dor Stewart's diabolical tyrants, crippled or not, they remain one dimensional. For poignancy, it is his small ensemble part in Lady Jane Grey, where just for a moment, he displays the magnanimity of the doomed. Is Stewart Macbeth?
The Thane is the most haunting, of all the tragedies, Macbeth seems the most psychologically corroded by overreach, akin to yours truly and the ambulatory world, but I just don't see Stewart so tortured by culpability. I concede I don't know if the play available to view.
Tom Earle is an unlikely adversary, the type of boy-man women coddle with food and St. Christopher medals. He is perfectly happy playing tag with his walking stick with baby fat toddlers. I'll admit I am harassing his voice mail, daily. I've said what the fuck forcefully and recounted numerous follies by his staff, the people who work at these places are inept to the point that my own skills have corroded in psychic pain. Brian Coleman was Earle's second to last housing counselor before the center lost it's budget, and in the world of the way things work in Black Cities USA, my rental manager Trudy Richardson followed brother Coleman of Maryland around, never completed any repairs. The same Coleman who said "Liberty can help with the move," during the renovations, and then told me, the erstwhile former consultant, "Liberty doesn't offer that service." My assigned coordinator never opened her fucking mouth, and nothing ever changes with this paradigm.
He is gone, but I hate the little dodo with a vengeance, injured as badly as I was that year, but as ugly dykes are wont to say, these centers are all the disabled have. When we're ousted, even if homily but not persuadable to lesbianism,what then?
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