I’’M TRAVELING TO Montreal soon, and there is something epic in the idea of killing yourself in the city where you were allegedly conceived. I’m so down on myself, these days, that that little bit of synchronicity seems mighty appealing. They’ll give financial control for the trip to Butch because I’m FUCKING INCAPABLE of handling my own money. I’m in a constant state of depression because I lost all autonomy in the aftermath of the assault. I’m only living because Jaime needs me; I’m too depressed to write anymore. I still think about it of course. But in losing control of my own life: I lost control of my ability to write.
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.
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