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IDA is the queer commune and place that developed my identity and defined my purpose for much of my adult life. It has become the setting of my anxiety dreams lately. I’ve had a twenty year relationship with this place, and this year is the first year in over 15 years that I will not visit at least once. Last night’s version of the aforementioned anxiety dream had me there for a work party event and needing to go home for work; I left a day too early and wasn’t sure I could circle back, I debated calling off sick so I could stay one more day. I wanted to get back to long talks in a meadow like place with cute new friends. When I got back I was chatting with a few folks who were part of the work crew fixing all these different atypical looking roofs. They bragged about the hours they put in and felt really bonded, I realized I hadn’t done much. I realized I’d missed the real party and that my commitment was lacking. I realized I had nothing to offer and should have just gone home.

My last concerted effort at engaging with IDA was through the fall work parties. I’m not going back partly because with how much the non-profit industrial complex drains me, how much geriatric psych broke my body, and the extent to which I’ve never been a super high capacity person. I don’t feel like I can keep up with the pace of that particular work party. Organizers have tried to create space for different types and levels of contributions, but I too consistently leave feeling disconnected and unhelpful.

Possibly more importantly, I’ve stopped making plans to go to IDA (at least for now) because I’ve gotten the growing sense over quite a few years that I am no longer wanted or needed as a stakeholder. I’ve been trying to wrap my brain around that gracefully, it’s not anything I have a right to feel blindsided about, I think there are some very good reasons for it, and this is me trying to process it productively. If I share this semi-publicly, it’s because it taps into some conversations some of us need to be having. It is because I want to dialogue with folks, especially white or otherwise privileged folks, or folks more or less in the second half of life, who want to get respectfully and lovingly deep into this territory.

I have been cranky and snitty about IDA at least a couple times in the past few years. I was really put out that I wasn’t asked to be on the original Work Party organizing crew. The answer I finally got as to why (“we didn’t want to burden you because you were in school”) was a thoughtful white lie that effectively helped me move forward while I more slowly came to terms with some of my own shit. I am a white person of relative financial privilege (educated lower middle class, very focused on everyone’s right to be their special snowflake and pursue satisfying occupations and pastimes). There is a degree to which my entire trajectory at IDA has been a story of my feeling the need to be able to rest on my Laurels. There are folks other that cisgender men at IDA because of me and it is super hard to think that I don’t get to grow old in that space in a way which continues to envelop me in community. I lost my capacity to hold space for a friend of mine who is a new stake holder at IDA recently; I can’t really listen to her excited brainstorms about what she wants to create there. So much of it reinvents wheels, but mostly it breaks my heart in all these stupid and deep ways which are hard not to put on other people. In the end, right now my energy for IDA is limited, and I offer no particularly relevant perspective in terms of my identity. What I have to offer IS mostly laurels, and I have failed at arriving to that space with no need for validation around my history with IDA. My needs and psychology with the place are busted; I’m not in any position to be a decent stake holder.

It would be so easy to become one of those folks who feels bitter about the opening up of POC space and the increased leadership of feminine spectrum trans folks. But those are the folks I dreamed of being there in the first place when LL and I lounged on the lawn of the first Idapalooza and started strategizing ways to bring more women and trans folks to that land. If I can dream of them being there, I can dream of them being there without me. I’m trying to muster compersion here.

My failure at magnanimity can be traced at least partially to white fragility (and some other features of privilege). It’s the same urge that makes other of my people say “but all lives matter”, or “but we have the right to be in your movement too.” There are so many things I don’t own, but the assumption of ownership has been afforded me by the culture I live in. So stepping away from that, by choice or otherwise, feels difficult. But it’s not a hardship, because others shoulder that lack of ownership as a matter of course. Taking tiny steps to default on the “birthrights” we didn’t even realize we’d accepted is painful, but it is in no way oppression.

IDA is full of hope and memories but also reminds me of an awful lot of loss and failure. I have felt very isolated lately and part of me feels like I need more community in my life, community that is unconditional and rights the deep pain of human separation in this fucked up capitalist world. I got attached to the idea of community as a static god given right, an association that came more out of rhetoric than experience. I could most clearly imagine and believe in that definition of community during my time at IDA. Also I began to learn there that community was dynamic and fleeting, and hemmed in by some of the same hierarchies and limitations as the rest of the world. Right now IDA is working to level some hierarchies and it can’t keep all corners open, and my privilege offers me many things but a corner to be validated within supportive and connected community might not always be that thing.

There is a human need to feel connected and there are things about where I meet the world and which privileges and weaknesses I have which make that thing a particularly strong anxiety for me. I have a tendency to spin that failure to find and keep that community into a narrative in which I am an awful person who did A B and C wrong and will never have anything to offer. I have to remember that it’s my own anxiety I’m dealing with, that and the human condition of isolation as constant struggle. It’s not oppression, it’s not bad politics or wrongs, it’s not something that needs to be petitioned against. I’m not guaranteed community or connection in the way my Unitarian Universalist upbringing taught me that my inherent worth and dignity having self was supposed to get it. I have not entirely figured out how to navigate making space, letting go, challenging my privilege without taking up too much space feeling shitty about it, being gracefully able to support the work around me which doesn’t include me. I have fights to figure out how to contribute to and lessons to learn and work to do and skills to perfect but I’m not guaranteed the prize that I choose.

The Good Patient

The Arsonist looks at me with tears in his eyes, smiling, euphoric.
I have been trying to flush the word compliance out of my vocabulary
but maybe i just replaced it with "adherence" as a mater of semantics.
The good patient the good patient the good patient echoes through my head.
I had so much hope, and maybe so much love, and here it is:
I see it, love, in wide teary eyes.
Does he love me almost as much as the people whose thoughts
echo in his mind and tell him to do terrible things?
(things he doesn't question because "they" are special beings)
I look in his eyes and know i could love a zealot, a criminal,
a person who follows in the worst circumstances.
And I question love
and i question adhernce
and i realize i never really did question compliance
before this, not truly.
I could be a voice echoing through your head
telling you to eat vegetables, take your medicines,
check your blood sugar, or use condoms,
or run through the streets naked, set your books on fire,
throw dishes at your mother who is actually a serpent,
bite someone's face; it wouldn't really matter which.
I am surrounded by white light
(the racism of that statement intentional, if not unquestioned)
and so you comply, adhere, comply, adhere.
The good patient, good patient, good patient.
And i question good, which is, i'm afraid,
something i forgot to do for a minute there.

Rant to Ameliorate My Exhaustion

I had long conversations last night with former coworkers from my current agency about the short term nature of the work we do. In many ways my job is the best fit for me of any job i've ever had. I feel i can be myself; i thrive from the contact and the types of relationships i have with my clients and some of my coworkers; i get along well with my supervisors; being out and about all day is good for my disposition and really good for my seasonal affective disorder in my city's very dark winters. My former coworkers were in the same boat in that they loved the clients and felt really solid about the type of work we were doing together.

And, the way the work is arranged is entirely and completely unsustainable.

If I could work 8 to 15 hours a week less than I do and get done all the things i needed to I could see doing this work for ten years or more, bed bugs in my periphery and drug deals in front of my face notwithstanding. But I spend so many nights fighting with the inevitable headache of having been on for 12 hours already and trying to write one more hour of notes so i don't miss the deadline that will incur (albeit not very toothy) disciplinary action. I have not completed my expenses for at least 6 months because that's the one piece of paperwork i won't either get in trouble for or cause harm to my client's if i blow it off. When i miss a day off of work i'm terrified of everything i have to pick up (the last time I took a sick day it took over a week and probably 8 hours of collective leg work to fix a glitch that happened because of a problem with labs that would have been prevented and taken care of in less than 3 hours had i been there). This week was ultra stressful because the one day off that almost everyone gets means that, first of all, we have to do more with less time. Secondly, the chances that I will have to deal with someone not getting a medication filled by pharmacy, a needed healthcare intervention declined by insurance, or a resourced botched by a government agency is extra high. There are one to three days less to work with in all the various systems we are trying to navigate, and all those systems are already operating at below funtional staffing and resource levels.

Many other things in my life are on hold, and i am more aware than ever of the very finite limits of my capacity. I cannot depend on having energy to think or write, to engage in any kind of activism, to cook full meals. I dropped the idea of pursuing buying a house knowing that if i wait the window of opportunity will surely pass because i simply don't have the mental energy to jump through that set of hoops. There is so much research and development of health teaching materials and processes that i would like to explore for my work and my clients, but my ability to process on that level is so rare by the time i get through all the requisite tasks and paperwork and arguing with insurance companies over absurd nonsense. It's true that i work less than 50 hours a week, but my capacity diminishes after 34 or 36, that much is very clear; I don't know if different priorities and tasks would increase my capacity or if i just need to split my pursuits or have more leisure time to function. I wish i were one of those superhero types who could push and push and still have energy, but i am not.

On the one hand, i am planning on eventually giving in to the wisdom that i need to put my time in for a little while longer and then slowly embark on the process of finding a different job that does not wreck me quite so much. On the other hand i am so heartbroken that there is not a way to engage with the work i am doing in a way that works. It means that my clients, who have already been told they are expendable by so many people and institutions, will have to acclimate to yet another provider on top of the counselors and other specialists who get burnt out by this system. Honestly, very few people stay in these roles much more that 2 years and many leave before the year is out. Don't get me wrong, i'm a shitty martyr, and i have no illusions that i have the potential to be anyone's savior. As i stated before, i'm not one of those very high capacity people. But, i can envision a scenario in which we put enough resources in to systems so that we can be persons of normal commitment and energy levels and be able to successfully support people regardless of their level of trauma or psychosis or history of shitty access to resources. But that scenario is increasingly rare in this country for certain. My certainty that this phenomenon is not a fact of a broken system but rather by design is the topic of another essay.

The fact that our current systems have evolved in the direction of skimming away any slack at all is a violence to all of us. It is endless, and our austerity driven policy makers will continue to move forward even though we have long ago passed the threshold where people have died due to lack of access to simple interventions whose effectiveness is well documented. These non functional models will continue to be industry standard even though many people have already suffered unnecessarily poor health outcomes due to lack of sufficient time and attention of providers. We could easily afford, as a society, to train and staff health care and social services at completely safe and effective levels. Even the rhetoric of public health policy acknowledges that prevention and access to all the things for everyone saves a society money in the long run. But people like me continue to be asked to carry the weight of starved systems which require them to prioritize documentation of numbers and insurance driven data. I've certainly said all of this before, and there's nothing terribly new about this revelation, but i've been thinking about it quite a bit lately so sometimes it's good to take the time to articulate these thoughts. My exhaustion and lack of ability to be as sparkly as i'd like has a name, so it's helpful for me to call it out; that mere act gives me just a little more energy.

The truth is, anywhere i go from here i'll be expected to work within the same model to some extent, it's just that i might be more or less insulated from the constant revelation of how expendable people's lives are by those that have the most control over the resources. I don't regret the choices i've made to land me in this profession, certainly not. I'm grateful for all the forces that have allowed me to stay grounded in the larger contradictions surrounding what i do. To figure out how to act on that awareness in any way available to me is my only shot at retaining and/or attaining humanity.

Also, today i pulled the wilted tomato plants in my garden and it was so satisfying to accomplish seasonally appropriate garden tasks, even if it was an acquiescence to winter.

44 recap: anxiety, bottles, dyett

It's almost the end of another birthday, and the truth is birthdays are kind of hard for me. It seems like such a stupid first world dilemma, what with Trans Day of remembrance, FB streams full of islamaphobia, the inspiring words of Dyett hunger strikers and Black Lives Matters activists at the teachers for social justice event yesterday reminding me of the very complicated structures of violence against black and brown individuals. Looking at the facebook feed and getting all the "I'm sorry i can't celebrate with you, let's get coffee some times" texts feeds all of my social insecurities, which feels so wrong when there are people coming down to adventure with me, help me clean my kitchen while i cook brunch, share part of the day with me. I have been thinking quite a lot about the 5 of bottles (cups in traditional tarot) card. In in there are 4 broken and or empty bottles, but there is one bottle being rescued by a bird. I feel like the random loss of the world around me and my own personal life are four bottles worth at least. I'm a bullied kid; i'm bursting with mostly unhelpful fragility as a result of my not terribly well evolved capacity for empathy, i work in worlds where i see a lot of hopeless situations. Also, there is at least one bottle intact and full, and i really just want to keep my eyes on that rescued bottle. I want to have the strength to wade through all this shit with all the other people who have empty and broken bottles raining down on them. Jitu Brown and others talked so much about solidarity this weekend, in ways that felt real, not coddling or catering, not back patting, not useless allyship, but something charged and hopeful, something i want to aspire to. None of us know exactly what it looks like. But if i'm going to rise to even an shadowy prototype of what that could be, I have to hang on to that bottle and forget about all that other shit. I have to lay easy with the stories about the folks in my life who, with their own social anxiety or untintended judgement or hurt or whatever, trigger my feelings of not being enough in some inherent unfixable way. I have to fix the ideas i have about myself not having the capacity to contribute meaningfully, i have to extend that to active movement away from self sabotage. I have to end this birthday here, alone, with me loving myself, dreaming of and working towards the good shit i have already started with some pretty awesome co-conspirators.

Sudden Decline in the Season of the Dead

I pulled the Death card this morning, on the anniversary of my Father's birthday. That was the final factor that made me take the turn off to go see V, even though I was not required to according to my schedule.

V is so sick it makes me catch my breath to look at them, in and out of sleep, slow rattly breaths at moments, can't get words out. This is not the kind of nursing I do, but I think I could, I just have to settle in to a different mode.

V wakes up, tries to get out words with shocking persistence. The hospital nurse asks questions; she has no idea the extent to which this is not V's baseline. I explain that i can tell even by the two and a half word answers that V understands everything I am saying. I ask V for confirmation of this in front of the nurse and they choke out a "yes". I realize that's the best I have to offer to this person who is most likely sick from some form of neglect, maybe several types added up.

I have worked very hard in the last handful of months to protect them from neglect, to do damage control, to reverse the process. That machine is too big for me. All I have now is my ears. I hope V doesn't die, and if they don't, I hope they recover better than completely. I have been crying a lot thinking about it, I don't know why this particular person has galvanized so much of my grief and fear, but they have. I fear that makes me unprofessional or poorly boundaried. But there are some people i need to step up that extra bit to root for, and my true self is pretty freaking sure this person is one for whom i need to do that.

Happy last day of my own personal season of the dead. V, you have three more hours to go. After that everything will magically change. I'll wake up and there will be universal health care and all those barriers will be gone and you will recover miraculously just in time to get all the resources to keep you well this time. See you in a couple days, yeah?


Samhain 2015

I started to make my list; i should keep an ongoing one because I wrack my brain every year, somehow, i have to remember the whole list, every year. Alysa, Paul, Donna, Todd, Halsey, Patrick, All The Grandparents, Aunt Mary, Aunt Alma, Cathy, L., Yareak, Anna, Loli, Do I include David who i went to highschool with, and Julia who was at SisSub1? How many years past and what proximity? Jackie from TN who i knew by face and sometimes name and hello around the fire but half my facebook feed was memorializing her for weeks. Greg, Regina my formative spiritual advisor. Ha! of course, no question about beautiful Ha!, the hours of flipping through Martha Stewart living and the best game of nature of the adverb I have ever played. Kiss me Vicariously in the After life. Johnny G. as well, who gave me so much love and confidence as i fought LPN school. Blair, whose songs haunt me. Hadley, shit, did she really die? Yeah, she did.

Hadley nursed me through a bad breakup and the accompanying madness while I was staying in her town, the last time i saw her. The last time I busted my own head was in her guest room; this crazy queer ex debutante whom i hadn't seen in ten years, who welcomed me like we'd never missed a beat. And that was ten years ago. She was a beautiful mess, a focal point in my college queer scene, at once opulent, belligerent, and gorgeously irreverent. I watched my first gay pornos in her home right off campus, and rolled my eyes at the drugs and her expensive kitchen ware gifted by her parents, my little straight edged punk self. She credited me for other debaucheries, but, damn, it was so long ago, who remembers? Later I was so grateful for her lack of judgement, her unconditional support in my state of madness. Amelia told me she died and I kind of forgot till I made this list. This is the first time she made this list.

I had another paragraph of generalized reflection or something, but that feels like platitudes, so i deleted them. I hate this list because i never know who i've missed; I'll wake up in the middle of the night with a story at the tip of my tongue, perhaps. Or, I'll just have one of those dreams about my father which haven't exactly gone away in 20 years.

Hit and Run

Of all the things i have felt assaulted by this past week, I think the highest ranking is the Doctor who oh so irritatedly yelled at me for trying to track down him and/or his staff to help me procure the correct authorizations so the client he had discharged from his facility could obtain the insulin (a very common oft prescribed formulation of the stuff) that his insurance and the pharmacy was denying him. It wasn't really the attitude or the yelling but the fact that at the end of the day nobody involved with him or his staff or the facility was willing to do a single thing to ensure that my client wouldn't die over the 36 hour period it took me to rush an appointment with his community doc (who was entirely a different story, btw, thank god for awesome community doctors). It's cool, my client is still alive (again, thank artemis for awesome community doctors). My blood pressure might also be back to normal.

Other assaults include the fact that our being understaffed means we juggle priorities in this horrible way and i feel like i'm riding a string of broken promises to these people who i really want to thrive. But, you know, they live in the less glamorous part of the town served by this organization, and, surely they understand how that goes. (I'm rolling my eyes really hard right now).

So, yeah, then somewhere in the middle of the week i'm waiting at an intersection and i hear a crash scrape bang and my passenger side window goes pop and bounces back. I put on my blinkers and start to get out of the car and the vehicle that just hit me peals away. I repeat the license plate numbers loudly and when i get a pen in my hand write down what i think is the licence plate number on what is probably my clients' medical records. My client says "that was something" and is thankfully unhurt. The dozens of people at the bus stop look at me, is it blankly? I can't tell. I see a police car drive by and think about rolling my window down to say "hey, that was a hit and run", but I don't; the cop hurries off and starts to put his loud lights on and i wonder if there was some other reason why that car was in such a hurry it hit me at a not that congested intersection on a street with wide lanes. My car is definitely a little more battered and scraped, but the doors open. 311 deflected the call which i made in the moment of "oh god i need a police report for insurance so i can get the body work covered" and now i don't know if i want to do the in person follow through they told me they required.

I was rattled for a few and about an hour later my client said "that was something". And i haven't really talked about it since.

And maybe it really is all about who assaults you and why, and why they care less about you than what is going on in their lives at the moment. Maybe i'll just (not so) slowly let my car turn into a beater. But the pressure to let my clients do without insulin, lovenox, ativan, and home health nurses to check on their very infected wounds, and transportation that fits their wheelchairs, and diagnostics which catch their cancer on time, and labs in their neighborhoods which actually send their depakote, clozapine, and coumadin results to the right doctor. The pressure that stems for aquiensence to the violent idea that certain people don't as much deserve to live. That is just harder for me to brush off. So, I think i will just have to nurse that impending case of hypertension with a certain dose of resigned pride.

Madness in Song

The other week my awesome friend Kat put a call out for songs that "best speak to your experiences with mental illness" in a cathartic not-so-much wallowing way. I have found myself listening and building a list ever since.

Today I was driving down south Kedzie ave on the way to see a client and Walking in the Dark by Throwing Muses came on. Not only did it beg to be added to the aforementioned list, I found myself composing a review in my head. So here is me trying to write that down.

The song starts out stark and a little strained, like that aura of overthinking or deep lonliness that comes before a break. Just as the song fills out with only a bit of melancholy piano, the music becomes chaotic, with unframed piano and strings, uncomfortable, ungrounded, unpredictable. When the bass and beat and a bit more melody comes in it does not become quieter, and the more chaotic feeling riffs don't exactly go away, but they suddenly feel framed. The voice still modulates and at times is warbly or harsh, and the tempo continues to shift, but the feeling is dancy and melodic, grounded, it makes a kind of wild sense. At times the more beat heavy and melodic phrases phase back out, in fact the song ends with an unaccompanied burst of piano, but the moments are shorter, and we keep coming back to the fuller composition. During all of it the chaotic riffs don't go away, they aren't hidden, all of that is still going on. But there is a scaffold to hold it, and so the feeling is so different, the breathing becomes regular even as the mind races.

I like this exercise, of noticing this quality in songs, because I've never thought of anything else that better elucidates the shape of my own madness -- and I have spent countless cognitive hours on the subject. I love the reminder of this song, that that madness is always in me, and, even if it were an option, subduing or erasing it would not make me feel better. But adding some element of grounding, of structure, some extra thing which complements those wavelengths, helps me to feel more whole. And I can still vibrate with all the incredible energy that hypomania has to offer.



Oct. 26th, 2015

Last winter I read some case study style books and saw a lecture about trauma by a neuroscientist named Bruce Perry. Ever since then there is so much of it that comes up all the time in my work, my own head, my interactions. He wove a lot of research findings with stories of children he worked with, all of it underlining some basic tenets of trauma informed thought and the ways that persistent childhood trauma deeply change brain development.

One of the more resonant statistics and diagrams of his that I've seen has to do with mapping the average number of small positive to neutral human interactions children were exposed to and looking at later outcomes. Addiction was one of the factors that much much higher in those who had lower incidence of positive interactions, things like being greeted coming home from school, asked about tasks or things of interest or homework, being addressed in simple, human ways. Pleasurable things with higher octane could fill gaps made by starvation of day to day reinforcement of a person's humanity.

I've been thinking a lot about various spaces in the grey scale of this idea. Specifically I've been trying to come to terms with some of the damage of having been a bullied child both out in the world and at home. I am relatively privileged, and though my parents were laissez-faire 1970's hands off parents, I wouldn't say they were neglectful, though we did watch way too much television. There was a normal level of banter and I was told I was loved. Some of that was more out of balance for me because i got many more and louder negative messages every day. I'd be curios to know how that kind of thing shakes out in this mode. In some ways I have a high capacity for delayed gratification. This particular slice of grey scale does not really have to do with addiction per se, but a response i notice in myself when i have access to moments of intense feeling (for me, usually not drugs or drinking, maybe it's connected to states that could be classified as symptoms of mental illness). There are these heightened things that threaten to fill all the gaps in my trust that i can just be safe and ok, and in those moments it's so difficult to have any connection at all to the mundanely pleasurable.

I also wonder how much of this relates to the broader experience of growing and living in a society with priorities almost completely defined by capitalism. The kids who grew up in homes and had no protective repetitive interactions of basic connection are the ones I worry about the most, of course. I work with many of those people who have now become adults; i marvel at their resiliance and recoil at the challenges of their lives. It's important not to usurp that oppression, and that's not my angle here, so I hope it doesn't read that way. I do think it's useful to notice the spectrum that spreads from that experience. Mainly, for me finding some wholeness (and therefore ability to be accessible to people who are fighting much bigger oppressions), i wonder how useful it is for me to recognize those moments when i absolutely can't self soothe without rockets going off in my head as a lesser product of a similar phenomenon. I wonder if there is a way to reopen a childhood pathway and tell some new stories. Over and over and over again.

What does it look like to create a world in which none of us are starved of enough moments of mundane positive contact? Can I use my own little brain as an experiment?
It has been a weirdly painful week in spite of an environment of amazing work happening around me, and, indeed, including me. I feel like the depth of my emotions has been in a lead cauldron since late last November and life has been occasionally maudlin but mostly copacetic, peaceful and productive at the very least. My power to create safe space for myself and refrain from self sabotage has been unparalelled. Until a couple weeks ago when i let my guard down. The verdict is, I'm not fucking ready for that shit. I am swimming in things which prevent me from focusing on everything that I'm capable of doing to realize some effectiveness, beauty, meaning, or power in this world. Somehow I can't pull myself out of a remedial level of emotional complication long enough to be present for the rest of the world. My decently effective self care is not unconditional and I'm going back in to the lead cauldron for a couple more weeks or months, until I can wrap some things around some other things a little better. Temperance card carry me through the rest of my technetium year, please.

On the way from dropping a friend off after the, ultimately good, Nurses for Social Justice retreat I stopped at the Aldi to get Ice cream and berries to bring to a client currently at a care facility very close to where I'd dropped my friend off. The guy in front of me in line was conversing with the clerk in Spanish, trying to figure out if he could borrow a cart for a few blocks or at least leave items at the counter so he could walk back and forth, because he couldn't carry everything at once. On my way out i asked him where he was going and offered him a ride, which he accepted. He tolerated my mediocre Spanish gracefully and then told me he was from a town in Guatemala not far from where i had visited. I rarely meet Guatemalans in Chicago, and he perked up when he realized i knew his region, so it was a sweet reminder that putting yourself out to a stranger is sometimes the best idea, regardless what my stupid culture tells me.

As for the client who i visited on my day off with treats, yeah yeah yeah, professional boundaries, blah blah blah, fuck off. The more i talked it through with my friend the more i realized i did not so much feel guilted or pressured to do it, but knew I'd feel much better if I just took advantage of my proximity and saw this person. I really do feel an inordinate amount of inexplicable unconditional something for this individual, probably because they have not gotten their share in this lifetime. Maybe in my Technetium year, besides random interactions, honoring my clients is the best way for me to maintain my quota of human contact.


bevel tornequit

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