Meteorological data indicates it will be a beautiful end of summer day today, but that humidity will return tomorrow. Nice day for an outing, and perhaps I should make the effort, as I need new Velcro-latch sneakers, and a shoe horn. Only then can I go trolling for freelance or consultancy contracts, as I do not know of anything full time I can vie for close to current residence, although, since I started my long and drawn out roar to the politicians, and soon, any potential litigators, this residence may not be where I live all that much longer. My worry is two-fold: that I may wind up in an environment that will be as bad as Diamond Park, which was my first subsidized housing unit, or that I may wind up incarcerated, even inadvertently. Conservatives may kill quadriplegics, but progressives usually make things worse, so unless I get lucky, I am damned either way, and do not have the mettle today to go pretend that I still have any chance to be middle class, buying furniture, cars, durable appliances, children, husbands, power, or Nietzschean pretences. Here is one of Jimmi Shrode's columns that I once hissed at him about. What is wrong with it? It is angry, I'm angry. Jimmi writes of marginalization; I am marginalized, but what Jimmi will never admit to is the following: he and Erik and Cassie and Linda can play their power games and trample anyone they like simply for the sake of hating the oppressors. Jimmi applied for a job and got it and quit it, and that spastic_dowager's livelihood was destroyed in the process wasn't his fault, even though my former colleagues broke the rules to give this unstable homosexual whale employment. Erik, his partner, was Secretary of the Board, and before Erik's mind degraded to where it is today, Jimmi and Erk and Cassie did many extreme and fanatical things that merited investigation by the Justice Department. What did spastic ever do? Her job. That is what spastic did, and it never amounted to a damn hill of beans, either at the disability center itself, or later, at the Matrix Research Institute, and yes, moving on and letting go is the sane, the proper thing, but in the following years, between 2002 and 2009, my life became a nightmare for three reasons:
1. the way the center coordinators treated me, their lack of competence outside of specifically proscribed paradigms.
2. my landlord's repeated violations of my civil liberties.
3. Septa's CCT connect restrictions
Spastic now lives for vengeance, and unless I die tomorrow, I'll fight for it the rest of my life. Erik is not fine, as Jimmi suggests. Erik is a utility for uneducated paraprofessionals to earn a living, after all his years as the extreme and vicious transvestite, Erik's life is a coordinated set of restrictions, and quite honestly, despite my own aging limitations, I would rather be dead than live the way Erik does, and his refusal to quit smoking suggests he has his own destructive desires. Kimmy is sleek and healthy, by contrast, and has won what is left of my own scarred passions left unfulfilled, and it is all I can do not to adopt her. I tell myself to wait a month, unsure how much I will complete today, after litter duties, which I have engaged in increments, over a fresh and strong Italian roast. If you are white, you do not want to live in Diamond Park, unless, like Garrett Reid admitted, the inner city is some kind of thrill. It wasn't for me, I was just a naive and tormented student who thought MLK was noble.
King certainly was black royalty, and his rhetoric is no salve for the trauma Philadelphia has inflicted on me. I will not survive much more of it, if the future has more in store.
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