Metastisis

The degree of toxic stress I'm shouldering is partly my own intransigence, and perhaps too much so: I can cancel with ATT and get cheaper ISPs, return to a partial supplemental security income, collect the 10 dollars in ETP the state would give me. The resistance doesn't come from libertarian fealty. It is not loyalty to Tony which makes me stubborn. Tony came to my twitter feed. I ran him through search, followed him back, and let John Murphy's later rhetorical question slide about what I "heard." Which means I was nice to Tony's CFO because I value what Tony Stiles represents.

I am torturing myself, to a certain extent, because I still believe I can manage my own affairs better than an income maintenance case manager, still believe I can still sustain employment (although I handled Swarthmore College in such a manner that the interviewer who ignored my questions about clips in email had three lawyers view my profile, Christ) I do intend to get mileage out of that incident as institutional liberal bias, and will hopefully find the right editor, but this is a card close to my chest.

My mother's sister, when she and I talk, says "You cannot work." I'll never accept that, but the system doesn't ease up. It isn't fair that every time I need a new power chair I have to see a primary resident, basically clueless Asian students like Dr. Mann, and then get billed 90 dollars, no closer to an evaluation with a provider who will respect me. Wheelchair users aren't programs. We're Americans, and yet a lobbyist from Jazzy gives a Medicare administrator a good snow job, and suddenly everyone in center city has this generic fuck-witted piece of machinery. It isn't right, and I blame conservatives and progressives. People like myself need the AMA to get the fuck out of our way and streamline things differently. It disgusts me.

I'm on the edge of the tight rope, however, and can't keep this up indefinitely. I did work, all by myself, for five years, and shouldn't be expendable because I'm past 50. I will send Tony a decent photo for my profile after I have change for the laundry. Things are that tight right now. 

Can't stop biology, but I am not going back to anything like the homes I've seen, and that's final.

Evening of Your Holiday Weekend

I followed the Huffington Post writer Chris Peaks briefly, and if I had a dialogue with him about being on the street, putting up with Presby's management and pressure tactics is trivial, but through most of my working career, I've seen the price of indigence, whether for paraplegics, those with clinical depression, those whose delusions were so bad they were basically potted plants. If I give in and make the best of it, biting my lips until they bleed, it's not going to help. As a company, Presby has intimidated me so badly, in another 24 months I'll turn into one of my mental health clients in outer space.

I have spent huge swaths of time literally imprisoned in my unit due to broken medical equipment, at which point management attacks. Not assists. Attacks. I am helpless in an ill fitting manual wheelchair, stressed after yet another minority solicits me for sex, and Debra Horne shows up with reinforcements, due to the fact that I pose an existential threat. I cannot stay here and keep going through this people. I'll break, and given what I've been through attempting to reenter the labor force, I'm no longer a desirable gambit. 

Not that I've sent out 50 resumes, but I'm at a significant disadvantage, stigmatized through the veneer of supposed neutrality.

Debra Horne is a criminal and belongs in prison, the civil method of asserting what should be done with minority Nazi's. I am not trying to be amusing here. Alzheimer's is one thing; what Presby has done to me as a disabled woman is another, and I cannot simply rebound after 30 years of blistering *pluralist* shields for corruption. Trudy and Debra have harassed and attempted to intimate me once too often, and I am filing charges. 

Conquest of the Planet of the Apes

I've been online much longer than I intended today, wondering how much I should lie to get back in somewhere. Rick, as my former executive director, would have no reason to be sympathetic. I caused Mr. Baron some problems with Pew, basically over peanuts, and then Fern Markowitz, the patron saint of progressive Jewish lesbianism, and Linda C. Dezenski, her emulator, taught me a thing or two about homosexuality, corruption, and using federal mandates as a personal chop shop back at Liberty.

Payback's a bitch. Where am I going to get fresh references? Dan was polite to me when I found his profile on Linked In, but Matrix is no more, and whether I raised valid objections with their grantors or not, it was ungracious... Sigh.

I hate liberalism, hate it. Even if I pull on New Mobility, the publication of my favorite pretentious lesbian gimp, it has been years since Tim Gilmer and I exchanged emails. It matters to my sense of personal integrity, but there isn't much I can do about it on a pragmatic level.

Medium is eye fetching and uneven, and, however uncouth my devolving bar keep diction, I have been careful not to get into tweet battles with X, careful not to argue with Medium's writers-- not that this is a conscious effort. I've been there with online recriminations and Medium is too vast. If I wish to keep quiet, then I do-- but the fact that I communicated with them directly yesterday made me think, and think with alarm that perhaps I am past the point of adaptation? This frightens me, especially if I survive another 20 years.

Teardrops on the scales

"Kill the wino." James Caan

Though I woke on time (obviously, since this is a rare daylight post) I canceled my attendance at the Sims job fair in an email to his Harrisburg account at 7:20. I need some adjustment time with this hated Jazzy Quantum, the encroaching humidity, and if I lack the confidence to deal with recruiters in public at this moment, it will show. I'm an old woman skewering her fucking skull in desperation, and though the developing world would laugh in my face on the true measure of desperate lives, comparisons have little mitigating effect, even with the unintentional humor in the room mate search questionnaire.

Why are you looking for a room mate now?
"My wife is leaving me." Not ideal, but I called his number, out of sheer amusement, and I cannot find the electrician whose wife has cancer and whose current roommate is "psycho." Not idea either. I've been on ward with cancer patients, but was going to reach out to said electrician anyway, since I consider myself highly undesirable. Found him. He and his ailing spouse would put me closer to little brother, but an electrician with one ailing spouse considering me as an addendum would be up for canonization, yes, si?

21 years of my life with Protestant skinflints who've given me fonts of trauma, with their nigger chicks just piling it on, lancing my wounds because I'm furious that I came here, not considering it a choice in Meryl Streep's stark terms in her Priestly Prada habitation. Despite this section 202 building location, I turned it down after my assault. I did not want to live here, ever, because I knew what it would do to me, and I'm no longer sure which evil is worse, the real ghetto or this crematorium, 21 years of strenuous hate. Why didn't I get out before? Well, Linda humiliated me and recovery time took two years; Paratransit was then lost, Frank happened, my mother died, had to put first cat down, the aide abuse, power chairs breaking, this is why, and any mind can only take so much contiguous crisis. I do not know if I hate Trudy Richardson for her integral nature or for her continued escalation and aggressive attacks against me, but I am either leaving this building or going to jail for pushing back; it's that simple.

Onward. Either way, I'm suing this company, and that because it cost Presby absolutely nothing to move me fifteen minutes past Diamond Park. I had already been pre-approved, and the only individuals who paid were my father, mother, the tenant who I bumped. At this point, it has little to do with ideology. I keep getting hurt, and the people imposing the pain aren't exactly on Lynch'es pay grade.