Every single day, since I left Matrix, disbanded since Irvin Rutman retired or passed away, I have gotten up from that day bed five yards behind me, trying to convince myself my life was not over. Every damn day, first the unemployment office, sometimes in tears. Then I reunited with this gang of crooks briefly and not easily, before the shit hit the fan with their ensconced princess, and one of their many now deceased employees gave me a stipend for a profile of another dead girl, Karin. Her lack of mobility due to her type of cerebral palsy killed her, killed her young. Her lover had a felony record, and Liberty paid this offside Adonis under the table. This is what they do. Imagine then, how fortunate it would have been for me if Linda had wanted a bisexual fling spastic a la mode, though I puked when I began to fear her motives in our email conversation. If you fuck a Liberty staffer, fringe benefits abound, and Linda accused me of this, in fact, after the pin popped my skull and I turned into an IED. Or a grenade. Whatever you like. Every day. I tried, at first, to return to, social services on the Matrix model, and then got lucky with freelance work, but that was not such that I had to string. At AccessLife I started to believe that maybe I'd get back to near my old salary, but failed to realize how insecure journalism is; I carried on bravely, still intend to, but remained entombed in this building, if only through inertia, meaning that this marvel of competency threatens, rarely litigates, though since I put my defiance in print, my back is up.
And so today, I managed a round with my sister, and her husband may be joining the ranks, if his tumor paralyzes him. His entire family is on disability, either SSA or workman's compensation, and in an odd way, this finishes trying to mend fences with my immediate family. If the physicians cannot treat to maintain the man, I know Stephanie. She'll leave him, the children grown. I am only an aunt to the six of them, counting the little brother ignoring me, after I pissed away 4,000 dollars on the two of them, in name. We really don't need episodes of Revolution, do we, to learn how the human animal turns on a dime?
She suggested that maybe I could visit for Christmas, perhaps not realizing that this involves more labor than can be managed, especially with her spouse impaired. Even if Septa scheduled a ride for me without a crisis negotiator, I am no longer entirely safe in my manual wheelchair. It is fifteen years old beyond any usefulness, and the Catholic heavens forbid she visit me here at Riverside, which is my point, beyond money. My officer cousin can inconvenience himself for my sake, and his mother's, but in my sister's suburban lexicon, this amounts to catastrophe.
I know. Focus on my goals, stay positive, and I'll be in exactly the same place tomorrow, living scar tissue.
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