Alford Plea, with Skid

We had a good laugh at that one. --David Foster Wallace

Deadbeats. This is what I am thinking of, spinning my wheels for 15 hours in exasperated anger that a nurse practitioner named Dana Rigley, who doesn’t have a license to treat me, insists on her one month daily visit for 10 minutes despite her very own acknowledgement that her function is non-essential for me as a quadriplegic. Socialized medicine at its finest. I would be delighted to challenge the traditional liberal as to what this labor and expenditure on her part amounts to, and wouldn’t receive an answer as to the hidden lack of efficacy and fraud within single payer options as I terminated her visits and waltzed her out of the door in tears, and I thought I lacked the requisite emotional armor, pushing back against Mia’s stridency, politely, but pushing against her now carnivorous, delicate, boney frame. I will not make so much as a dent against her convictions, as the sitting Pope reminds me of my hardened heart and I reminded his warders of a once warrior driven faith. Deadbeats, where do they come in? Ah, my cousin by marriage, with whom I was not many futurist hours past this post terse and unkind, has a broken younger ambulatory ex-Marine brother who reminds me of my dead fiancée of course, and he has a crush on me. I want nothing to do with it, and assumed Pam would be angry with me for openly deeming him a half-wit, but Pam rolls right along with her indolence and her dogs, as the fine citizens od this country elbow each other to expiate their pain on trash TV. My attendant’s exquisite tastes: Dr. Phil’s prostitutes, Dr. Phil’s anorexic emergencies, Dr. Phil’s molested stepdaughters. This is the corrosive acid eating us away, the self-absorption of Dr. Phil’s megalomaniacs who have lost touch with reality and because they appear on Dr. Phil, receive a cushy voluntary commitment environment. Civic conscience and duty, these now fall on famous athletes, on Hollywood celebrity. We hide behind them, those with whom we align. Mia’s followers defend her against non-trolling critiques such as mine. James gets defended by his salient multitude, and television so carefully matures with Emily Tyra, an actual dancer, receives a punitive back story, starving herself into sterility. Code Black is so cleverly an industry send up, a playful coyness to it, the opening season a fantasy musical dance number reminiscent of Glee, a tolerable viewing  bracket. Little more than that, barely making a dent in the rebuilding I need to do with, for, my work. Exactly what assistance do I desire from you? A visit from Mikaela Hunt, with her middle brow womens’ interest questions I occasionally attend to with dilatory respect (entering into her modality when I please)? I am in love with an African American nerd whose sex drive is skewered into the wiring of nurture, regardless of all these years I have avoided this situation and attacked the regressive dependency paradigm which feeds the business of poverty and chronic condition, and believe its state regulated enforcement is evil and despite my unapologetic rancor with black counterculture, I want to authenticate an interpersonal relationship here, worn and threadbare daisy. I tempt him. The next day hope scuttles, and on we go, not listening to him to try to shit this morning on demand. One day, I’ll hit the fuck this pedal past my error of believing my work was secure. Such slim incentives not to follow David Foster Wallace on the other side, past the photosphere.

Verne Miller Bowel Obstruction

"It had begun early that morning when he stopped for gas.--Tom Pawlik, Vanish

The age of my technology makes all this more than a bit frustrating. Friday evening I was able to sync, and sampled an Amazon original, Absentia, which opens with Stana Katic in a water tank, or being punched, or stabbing a journalist in hospital, but this morning, despite cold reboots, I cannot get the hotspot to ping, wonder if it is the anti-virus software. I’d like to lose the USB plug in. It keeps my phone bill high, as the black man who has based his economic decisions on my assurances drags me by my legs in the morning like a fucking sack of turnips, helps me sit on a Jay cushion far too high while the Depends wadding gnaws my rectum for the hours I sit here.

When I lose a long time follower like Justin Murphy, the assistant professor kindred Catholic libertarian, yes, I wince, but caution myself I cannot ascribe reasons for my account removal to his feed. I was going to keep his on mine, may restore him later, but I give very little time to my followers, even failing to recall that Mikaela’s tag line is a far superior resume to mine, and half the time, I do not know what Justin is tweeting, and so I did not rise above the law of an eye for an eye as proscribed in Deuteronomy, and dropped Justin and his specious queries about weed and mass, even as he hit like for a couple of my responses, which seems inconsistent, a drop with continuing validation. Trust me, I know imitating Mikaela’s trained anchor pleasantness would improve my social media ratings, but is Mikaela being hauled off a generic hospital bed by a minority who failed in manufacturing at one corporate plant after another, from food processing to retail? I cannot overcome the cruelty of medical socialism, in my 57^th year, plagued by nightmares of being hauled away by force by a bevy of females similar to the scurrying bitches of VNA, to another institution for imbeciles, while the director puts his hand down my blouse, strangles me with a forcible kiss, as I protest repeatedly that I’ve been matriculated and educated, hauling myself awake much like Stana in her fast moving collision of a lead, it is still nonetheless a variation on my end game, which my readers assure themselves they are helpless to prevent. Going out with a time trigger bomb wired to this power chair, punishing my posture and all but strip mining me helpless, doesn’t present me with that much of a dilemma. March For Our Lives cannot de-weaponize the anguish of a life bowed over the screw.