Class Reunion

what a glorious feeling I'm happy again-- the musical

My distraught cousin believes I am in bed. My antagonized attendant believes I should be in bed, and I was on the point of going to bed, but the upset apple cart might be likened to the evidence of a high school pep rally pecking order, one which I don’t really have time for, but nonetheless I offered provocation, not at Maxine's incitement level 20 minutes to check out and Galahad rebelled. Rightly so, as I do not let go easily. The consequences fell on my cousin’s head more than my own, as my raw aches cauterized by the end of May, but I had a 62 year old woman wailing she did nothing wrong, why was Galahad mad at her? This is not a feigned attachment. She truly believes my care worker is her friend, and it makes me skittish, how she clings to a working class man she only spoke to once. Even I’m not that attached, and without his attentiveness, even if I did transfer myself onto the chair in his absence, I would run into loss of independence hygiene maintenance, and I’m next to indifferent on the matter, still bound to the temporal order of the world because a deflated ego wishes to save my voice. Am I engaged in that recovery? Only in minor starts, overwhelmed. White collar professionals presumably have a better grip on emotional maturity, and if he knows he has his freedom, he erupts vigorously when I drop the occasional depth charge into it. Why bother? Fighting to reset the parameters of his intimate consolation, I respect that, obey the routine, but cannot pretend continuously that this situation is a cakewalk for me. Being bused some 40 minutes outside my district into Sun Valley in the ninth grade was equally not delectable, and the only utilitarian victory disability activism handed me on a platter was suing Ridley Township to install wheelchair ramps. It never mitigated the culture shock, something which took years, shedding the special education modifier. Bringing all my professional acumen to bear, I am functionally my cousin’s psychologist, singing pennies from heaven while Gene Kelly choreographs the special effects of water vapor. I miss making love, transforming him into a pugilist sparring partner.

Simian Mists Application

Oah oooh, oah ooooooh, Elton John, Curtains

The dowager’s ire, if she is to engage in a certain degree of veracity with her audience, stems from an unexpected reawakening which cannot be satisfied except through an incidence which might seem as exploitive as what she explored in her controversial New Mobility Magazine feature in 2004. Slant it one way, and yes, she can see it through the periscope of an alarmist, regulatory left, and conservative constraint both. I have already given ample indication that I’ve been on the inside of a conflict resolution giving me double vision on the matter of a simulation of an authentic interpersonal relationship borne out of economic and decentralized necessity. But there is this undertow aspect, the full-blooded woman rising to the surface even so close to biological twilight, caught in abeyance, with few outlets other than to restore her functional ability as a writer. What can she do, as a practical matter, to allow reinvigoration to lead where it may? She is too old for neon signs on her chest, rather risk adverse to trading cash for a hustler, and this isn’t really a Fay Wray subliminally lewd moment where the marionette finger of an outraged gorilla is poking her breasts, although the 1933 film popularizes stereotypical fears dramatized by The Birth of a Nation, unless we kill the smart phones utilized in research for galivanting off with a mind of their own while we try to conserve those expensive gigabytes.

If an NPR Georgetown University critic lamented to her listeners that vampirism is the most overused conceit in literature, creature flicks aren’t far behind, though concessions must be granted, and one of them is the original Kong is a classic, with little of that diluting empathy of the later films humanizing the embattled silverbacks and their close lowland mountain relative. All the sudden, we’re responsible for their welfare, even as we utilize Caesar as an implausible didactic warning about taking pharmaceutical miracles too far. Planet of the Apes, whichever versions we prefer, takes the antagonist victory to its fantastical extreme: the monster wins, regardless of human ingenuity attempting to outwit it—but setting that aside for Kong’s magnified context, if the gorilla as we know it wins, then what? What alternate pathway can be reasonably construed? I certainly don’t have one for our slower relatives analogous to our own species afflicted with Downs Syndrome. Unsympathetic as it may seem, I take issue with conservative pricks to our conscience when it revolves around mental retardation. The dowager doesn't exactly put Kasich in the wrong, exiting the stage on a high plateau, or dispute Thiessen's heroic clarion call, which bravely pushes back against presumption. The issue is about destitution. If I, as a near spastic genius, am falling into poverty inverse pyramid trap, due to avoidance and obstinacy in part, those necessarily limited by brain damage only have so many niches.

For every moment of Penn's brilliant dramaturgic portrayal of a mentally challenged man cleaning up after prejudices against him barely registered, giving his audience the near fairy tale resolution which makes Americans feel good about our basic decency, there are three tragedies like Ethan's, toppling from the Empire State, because you either want us dead, or constrained into norms with which you're comfortable. I posted a really hard spiral into the abuse I suffered via Unlimited Staffing, nearly too hard even for me to defeat its masochistic destruction. The woman was a predator, but the difference, between that, and the crack of the walnut shells you've read on this account, is two lonely people fumbling about, trying to fill each other's spaces; it shouldn't be a crime, and as a technical matter, it's not, except the client has to dictate her terms, and the care giver has to meet them, while the man, and the woman dance the slimmest tightrope, waiting to see what drops, and when.

Depreciation

The Queen of the house represents the Christian virtue of mercy, which is different from the equitable justice allegorized in Britomart. Whereas equity returns to philosophical principles in order to ensure the defendant receives his proper due, mercy offers freely to redeem offenders who sincerely repeat their crimes.-- Poetry Foundation's rehabilitative sympathy for The Faerie Queene

My sister-in-law cannot convert my Office 7 files not in the cloud, and I droop. The only way I know how to defeat this on my own is to find my Office 7 CD, which is hopefully somewhere, hack my product key, install, then open said files in Office 365, and the only human being who probably desires to help me solve this with all his heart is a paraprofessional with whom my lifespan is alarmingly eclipsed, so hurry, get it all in, and there are worse things in life than misdirected denial, but a decent way to leash a man, to my surprise, is a thousand dollar piece of technical hardware. It is nothing new to wake up and feel rebellion with biology. Robert, in messenger: "I can't believe I'm 67!" "Forever young!" The dowager retorted in equal vein, as I go stomping around with I'm 56. But I am 56, and whether certain lines are blurred between regressive care, I was onto that as early as his first Wednesday with me, and something more, I remain restless, my retrenchment not least among the reasons for that, to be polite about what I mean, but you should know already. I mean, this man took a risk, because I wept, he wanted to console me, just as I've taken risks of late, running through every rationale while he takes me to school on the court. I do not want to be sexually manipulated because of depression and cynicism simply out of a misplaced fiduciary duty on his part, and yet we've been so close to taking each other that I am not simply frustrated, more than that, perplexed. He trusts me thus far not to can his ass and says he is in heat for various areas where we all know our erogenous zones live, and I'm his fucking job at the same time. He's guardian, family, brother, and yes, a man in my life who outlasted my particular talent for being unforgiving. And this, despite the fact I cannot cut him down. There are 1001 pathways to that but his zeal is a bit forcibly sealing my jaws and silencing my tongue-- not about the heavy petting-- but him, because he's the rare embodiment of a good man. I've always wanted that, but not due to his economic necessity. My cousin, equally scarred, asked why am I afraid if I believe I'm in love with him. I'd think the answer would be obvious. If and when he's ready to move on, who gets screwed, whether or not that literally happens? But as of yet, I am not sure I've grafted my own hybrid of apples and oranges. 
I'm 56, losing ground to technical folly and not a few unexpected ground balls. Do I wrest out some kind of commitment from an inner city minority that will make me self-conscious for the rest of my life? The anarchist in me isn't dead, trust me there.