Even though my right wrist has never regained it’s full, pre-t.b.i. flexibility and reliance, I still find myself hemming and hawing when it comes to buying a specifically left-handed mouse. I’m not sure my brain will go along with such a dramatic shift in focus. I’m not sure it has a choice, though.
And so, they quietly slip away, my little bastions of “normalcy”; I don’t even think anyone knows or thinks of what It does to a person, to see his hitherto well-lived life fall into a bottomless chasm of “used-to-be’s."
Arguing for my independence with my trust lords has gotten really old, really fast. See, I’m like a poor man’s Brittany Spears: all my money is in a special needs trust, dispensed as need be by my Trustees: Gil Roth and Peter Johnson. Gil, I’ve been friends with since St. John’s. Peter does this for a living, & cuts me a world of always legal and ethical slack. More tomorrow. Nighty-night.