Any given Sunday

"The last five essays of writing and difference might be incomprehensible." -- Alan Bass

Me: "She might have been killed.
Frank: "So what?" in reference to Janay Rice, in an afternoon four way argument between me, my dying aunt and her internal adenocarcinoma rotting, and Karina! who telephoned me after being out of town.

Like any failed little boy, Frank defends Ray Rice, and like any fully unrealized woman, I indict Janay for her complicity, and meanwhile, I'll never be able to enjoy football again as a way to communicate with my father. Trouble, these days, trying not to hate my 80 year old parent for my brutalized childhood, but Janay's voice, in this latest national argument we're having about being black, being barbaric, can only be heard once removed: She apologized for her part in an argument where she wound up very much like the canine victims of the Shining Path. She then married her fiance despite the fact that he was charged with aggravated assault, and is now defended by minority proxies on twitter who plead with us about how hard it is to leave abusers. My problem with this is Janay had more privilege than most to decouple herself from her baller. You might ask, given that I'm losing my battle against near absolute indigence within the inexorable grind of the welfare state, if I would have walked out on the rare commodity of the professional athlete, and my answer is yes. I've been incarcerated most of my life, charged with no crime, brutalized by now obsolete orthopedic procedures, sexually assaulted at least four times, also a victim of an aggravated assault, distressed because all ableism now feels like an aggravated assault, and TMZ advocates for the brutalized female far more effectively through the acquisition of security feed better than I can ask anyone reading me to lend me a hand in my last productive years. Yet I keep talking to my ex, who would have strangled his first wife to death, because I don't have a girlfriend to speak to anymore, barring Karina, the dense nice New Church woman. She loves me, she said the last time we parted, prostituting herself for nearly 300 dollars she was neither worth, nor I able to afford, and I am not even in the lesbian slot that oral sex on pussy "feels right" to pull the vapid dialogue from Chasing Amy. Poor Marie now wants to play the pimp for her hospice care.

Terms of Service

The Peruvian Maoists killed people with rocks, clubs and knives in hand to hand combat.-- Santiago Romcagliolo, page 148

The effects of nicotine vapor shortage, and the custodial employees doing me a favor, so they believe, by unlocking my door to leave pet supplies in the kitchenette; it disrupts my colon solidification, my need to stay off my pressure sore; sometimes leaves me unable to go back to sleep without pushing toward exhaustion. If I forbid Mike Pera or Niles entry in relation to what may be added labor for me to push up to my unit, I may end up regretting it, but Wednesday morning was physiologically frightening, even with pastrami and a nice spinach salad; no coffee, though I need a pot this evening, two and a quarter cups with the big fellow here; not sure if my total caffeine intake has increased accordingly, just as I'm equally uncertain if I should apologize to viewers for behaving like the typical road rage quadriplegic. Despite my efforts, I am a quadriplegic who has sustained systemic modal failure, and I could not lock in focus, and relaxation, with Pera's horse's ass boot jacking and my need to clean up after cats I am weary of raising, bound in obligation.

So you saw a peek of how similar I am both to David Foster Wallace, with too much heart, and an Alawite  member, with vested and ruthless interests. A calcified outcry not quite contained by the 3600 milligrams of salmon oil, though by now the dead spawn has done its saturation. 

Adaptation was never the main issue: When John and I knew each other as students, he captured in his critique of my work how cerebral palsy altered my spatial relation; it was an astute capture from the man whose children I longed to womb gestate. He is the only Italian American whose sons and daughters I wanted to bring into the world, but this is my point. All I possess, to countermand the sexual assaults and institutional cruelty I sustained, is longing for what I cannot conceptualize, literally: bipedal motion and perspective.

Violations I know. Walking on two feet might as well be as fantastical as warp drive. Back to work, but I do not see my desire for controlled euthanasia as irrational. If I have been brutalized out of the meritocracy, I'll be damned if I will allow a nursing home to utilize my body for a malpractice portfolio.