Another One Bites The Dust

"She needed to be more liberal."-- Theodore Dreiser

I should be quiet when I get like this, knowing it is too late baby, whether I run or not, whether I cancel my Prime Membership or bite the bullet, whether I voluntarily throw myself back into Pennsylvania's mental health system, or not. I know that system well, and know it will not help me. Pacify me? That depends. Help me? No. Therapy cannot circumvent permanent destitution. Therapy, at least in Southern PA, is a secularized New Testament. Forgive. Think of what it would do for you. Declare bankruptcy. This is what I got from an intake counselor circa 2K during my nervous breakdown after I flipped on Linda, who is evidently her same pussycat self, from what I can gather. Linda's casualties sit on one end, and the eel in her sneakers and overcoat jumped ship on a railroad grant. Perhaps I am making things impossibly difficult deliberately, breaking myself faster than Presbyterian Homes would do it for me. When I told NYT on twitter that I am a genocide survivor it was not exaggeration. Section 202 takes broken people in and breaks them further. I have seen black schizophrenics fracture the faces of their grandchildren, rolling back to my unit, face the color of a turnip, screaming for police. I cannot forget that afternoon. I ran from my own mother's insanity to something much worse, whiplash upon whiplash upon whiplash, I purchased the Gladhandler a candy bar.
Who is he? No one, a simple cripple, 70 years old. Follows Erik like a fucking puppy. Sourced me, however, for AccessLife, so I am kind, even if I upload the cart and dump my bleeding scars on a tacit, naive simple bastard who never got laid. He loves his nigger dependence. Wince. Go ahead. Now I'll shut up. Jerry always hated that imperative command. I may just vaguely recall George Michael. I said, oh, must be AIDS. To my regular viewers (do I have any?) I need not continue in that vein. I'll lie down an hour. Pout about losing Mhz on WYBE.