Between the 83 84 semesters of my underclassmen years, I had a nursing student roommate named Lee. She was diagnosed with lymphoma and had to withdraw, and though my memory is malleable, I think her boyfriend, an engineering geek, told me she went through an unimaginable medical hell, and all I remember is the drip of her lassitude, curled up on the mattress, or dragging herself into the kitchen for tea. She and I actually got along, but even in my young adult years, trying to expand my melancholy wings, death may have not been ready for me, but was nevertheless an omnipresent force.
not dying— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) August 30, 2017
I am dubious as to whether she survived, but find it ironic that perhaps I've met her mortality on a grading curve, having such a difficult time with my bowel that a miniscule nosebleed hit my stomach. Rushing to look up lymphoma's symptoms, I have some of them, so it may not be COPD, after all, which finishes the job. If I am really sick, with something killable, then fighting Trudy Richardson and Debra Horne's civil liberty violating tactics are meaningless, in the context of going against medical advice, not that I have any. My nostrils are dry from vapor; it may be nothing or not, with no money to spare to find a practice in this city which I feel I can trust. Nick Gillespie may counsel against anarchy in his many frenetic uploads on Reason, but people in the early stages of dying, if they are as angry as I, might pose a threat to public safety. I am winded, afraid to consume the edibles I have, sufficient for a 48 hour period, sipping my coffee, saturated with old NSAIDS due to the damp changeability of the weather, but that doesn't mean I'm incapable of going down for my own sense of lost cause. That I diced a few metaphysical chives and sent Nick an invitation to connect on Linked wasn't, as might be construed, a need for legitimacy. I was offering respect, and told him we'd disagree. I am not, as is he, as is Austen Petersen, a social liberal, and no people, I may not live long enough to olive branch that divide. I know, intellectually, that hate crimes in the name of intolerance only shifts the spectrum back around again, but as for me, personally, poverty and municipal corruption created my internal willingness to go postal. By corruption I do not mean a Pelican Brief conspiracy, but rather, like most things urban, ineptitude. I am feeling my oats this morning, tired of exterminator visits making me over-anxious, but a good deal of my trauma resides in public housing extermination: I was attacked in my wheelchair access unit on the day he was due, and the contractors at Riverside are the raison d'etre for my duress non-eviction threat of eviction if I tell Trudy to go fuck herself again I will be evicted. 33 years of playing ravaged boob slut to the creased malice of Vincent Price in medieval fashions. I am filing with the Human Relations Commission now, but what I am attempting to convey is ideology isn't a panacea, in the shell game of a libertarian who's who. I want to give my notice, and I want to give it, badly enough that I'm getting sick, and it's fundamentally unfair. I nearly died because this landlord was indifferent to who had access in the much smaller Diamond Park. I shouldn't have to threaten whatever time I've left by divorcing myself from location I have always hated. I never wanted Riverside. Never.
