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I'm clinically depressed

Crudely put, I have way more money than any non-bestselling author should.  But  it’s all in a trust that, ideally should operate in such a manner  as to allow  me to get back to the level of creative proficiency I would be making the  most of, had I not been bashed.  Sadly for me, it  all operates with goal of saving my money  for a life I may  never live to see.  Right now, I’ve  given up  all hope of leading even a semi-self directed life.   If my life continues on it’s empty path, I’m killing myself after Grendel and my father die.  I take full responsibility  for  the events  leading up  to  my assault, but  none for after,  except for staying alive & working so hard at my recovery for so long.  Most of that,  the 4th & Arch Quaker Meeting lovingly gets the credit for.  When I got my  award from  Ireland’s Injury Tribunal is is when the neutering of my free will  happened.

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I'm sooooooo effing tired.

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.