March Winds Slicing Pillow Down

To die cradled in a decentralized exploitation model isn't much of a victory for matriculation, and that is what nigger filth like Miss Eddy forced me to remember-- not that a homoerotic experience would be a dangerous thrill, but that it gets people killed because it is duplicitous, dishonorable. My father let niggers hurt me when I was a child. My father let niggers hurt me because he married a sick and mentally unstable woman who needed to get away from an austere mother. The sick and unstable woman lost his son and managed to rip me out of her womb in grand theater, before she bore my dead brother. I wasn't good enough, so I could eat rust with Abraham Lincoln's burden. A university education didn't change much. Minor miracle that I once had a 3.5 GPA at all, within or without an institution.

Case management has been one continuous line of abuse, and no legal rhetoric, nor anything Liberty Resources represents changes that. The coordinators are mostly unattractive women who need an income and get one by behaving like den mothers, close ranks against the suffering and expulsion they generate, and yet, transvestites like Erik, bull dykes like like Nancy, they treat decentralization like a Biblical commandment. Erik, regardless of my animosity, is dying, and how following black Caribbeans around on a leash is better than centralized nursing care, this is not much of a differential

Sure, vulnerable crunchies like Louise, the online contact who chased me, they have civil service protection. I spent 16 years traumatized by the medical model, another three years patted on the head as an integrated Ridley Township school district token. My mother's lovers liked my tits. I run, dump myself onto Temple's vocational repositories. I sincerely hope my viewers have a more peaceful demise than that which lies in store for me. I cannot close the book on women like Eddy. I'm a quadriplegic over 50. For shit like her, my body, the loneliness in my face, is a banquet of gratuitous indulgence.

I take a risk stating the truth of my psyche: I want Linda Dezenski to suffer brutally for heaping more anguish on my plate than I should have had to bear; it isn't enough for her to die only once, and I'm cognizant enough to see the flag of life long learned masochism in the fact that I keep beating her, mentally, for turning on me, breaking me down because I advertised my personal loyalty as an exclusive commodity. 

The Trader Joe's app is fun. If only it could spit me out a good man, one who cared about me enough for the patience of exploration. Off to the store. Meteorology is calling another storm, swirling us about, morbid cocoons.