a blog that is also meant to serve as a recovery journal, for this gay, Quaker, writer dealing with t.b.i., from surviving a hate crime in Sligo, Ireland, on 1.31.99.
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.
… that I doubt I’ll get any sleep AGAIN tonight. FRANKLY IT JUST PISSES ME OFF. I ASK SO fucking little from the Trust… and maybe that’s my whole problem: I only get what I ask for: so fucking little. & so that’s what I get. More tomorrow. It’s late; I need to sleep.
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