Since the assistant manager took a promotion within the Presbyterian corporate office, Trudy Richardson has escalated pressure on me more than at any other time since Debra Schwab, the last Caucasian to manage Riverside, and Brenda Williams had her brief stint, and I am cracking not because I care about eviction, but because I have absolutely no options. Perhaps it is this way for some of you since the recession. I can't know, but I can no longer utilize my disability center, I do not know how to even get a paralegal intake to listen to me, despite however much I parse the duress and abuse I have sustained, and today, I had to be disrupted for over an hour by city inspectors. Whatever some of you may think about my attitude as reflected in my posts, Presbyterian Homes has been relentless, for 28 years of my life, treating me like a deranged animal, and I'd like to see how healthy ambulatory people would handle this, after a life of Philadelphia homes for cripples, years of surgical hospitalization, and on top of it getting ostracized by disabled neighbors I grew up with because Linda, whom I did not know during my suburban youth, made me a laughingstock in front of Louis, who I went to school with, and was her accountant for a few years. Putting aside the significance of my limited mobility, is this what your life is like? Compliance with home association contracts? Dining inspections?
Those of you who walk must have some better choices than what I have to sustain. I am 52, weakening, but stable, and what I have to look forward to is a fortress like Inglis House, the true bedlam of horror movies, and a homosexual from twitter, defending his friend because she stopped following me because I kicked up a little hay, suggests therapy. My neighbor from the third floor unwittingly puts me back in West Philadelphia's Project Share orbit, which I wouldn't do to anyone-- it is like a half way house, but the indigent are free to come and go. My sister and brother aren't going to lift a finger for me, neither will you, and my attitude is a downer? I suppose so.
Showing posts with label journey to the End of the Night. Show all posts
Showing posts with label journey to the End of the Night. Show all posts
Monday, September 29, 2014
Sunday, January 5, 2014
Pugilistic stances, bread crumbs channeling Celine
"... and full of melancholy, like those Chekhov characters so laden with virtues that they never know success in life." --Orhan Pamuk, tracer modernist
I am consoled, at least to some degree, that I turned back to Pamuk last evening after I finished the usual take out fish platter I stopped ordering but used to order frequently after Trader Joes opened. Sometimes I can still find myself in the manipulative narrator that offers up a poet journalist like Ka (hello). PBS gave me a crueler and more ridiculing view of the Ottoman state shrinkage, though the intent of the documentary was to instill hope and repair the damage. If you haven't seen it I would not recommend that you do, unless flouting Turkish law to disparage its citizenry is one of your particular scatological pleasures; Pamuk can make you forget unpleasant sensibilities about long wide noses characteristic of the Mamluk golden age, fleeting as that episode in eastern history proved to be. I transformed into a variation of Louis Ferdinand Celine simply by the virtue of Vonnegut channeling the horrified physician in the too clever by far opening of Slaughterhouse Five: "Make it stop! Make it stop!"
Meaning if I could get what I believe it is that I need in a change of scene it would not necessarily change the reality of my ground game. Already afternoon, smirking at the typical bourgeoisie antipodes of my more affluent aunt, her friends, their catastrophic medical vulnerability. Were it up to my uncle, he would taser me into compliance with a straight jacket, if I watch the broadcast choices at all, the highbrow multi-cultural Bend It Like Beckham. I can do that script in my head-- or this bit of junk food, trying to calculate my COPD scale mortality rate. A commentator on WaPo asked me the nationality of my section 202 housing location, and even if I had wanted to pick up the gauntlet, the barb made no sense.
I was a twenty three year old woman when I entered into the PresbyHomes-PCA nexus. My treatment under this model was a sustained and inhumane cruelty, and, as previously indicated, if *citing* my posts on livecams ph is some sort of account suspension tactic-- what is it I have caused, or done, exactly, in your book, after a lifetime of post-academic grief? Not to put so much onus on traffic sources.
I am consoled, at least to some degree, that I turned back to Pamuk last evening after I finished the usual take out fish platter I stopped ordering but used to order frequently after Trader Joes opened. Sometimes I can still find myself in the manipulative narrator that offers up a poet journalist like Ka (hello). PBS gave me a crueler and more ridiculing view of the Ottoman state shrinkage, though the intent of the documentary was to instill hope and repair the damage. If you haven't seen it I would not recommend that you do, unless flouting Turkish law to disparage its citizenry is one of your particular scatological pleasures; Pamuk can make you forget unpleasant sensibilities about long wide noses characteristic of the Mamluk golden age, fleeting as that episode in eastern history proved to be. I transformed into a variation of Louis Ferdinand Celine simply by the virtue of Vonnegut channeling the horrified physician in the too clever by far opening of Slaughterhouse Five: "Make it stop! Make it stop!"
Meaning if I could get what I believe it is that I need in a change of scene it would not necessarily change the reality of my ground game. Already afternoon, smirking at the typical bourgeoisie antipodes of my more affluent aunt, her friends, their catastrophic medical vulnerability. Were it up to my uncle, he would taser me into compliance with a straight jacket, if I watch the broadcast choices at all, the highbrow multi-cultural Bend It Like Beckham. I can do that script in my head-- or this bit of junk food, trying to calculate my COPD scale mortality rate. A commentator on WaPo asked me the nationality of my section 202 housing location, and even if I had wanted to pick up the gauntlet, the barb made no sense.
I was a twenty three year old woman when I entered into the PresbyHomes-PCA nexus. My treatment under this model was a sustained and inhumane cruelty, and, as previously indicated, if *citing* my posts on livecams ph is some sort of account suspension tactic-- what is it I have caused, or done, exactly, in your book, after a lifetime of post-academic grief? Not to put so much onus on traffic sources.
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