I SHAN'T KILL MYSELF... Jamie needs me. But, I feel crappy that's become my sole reason for living. But hey, that's why I adopted her; and, she does that, in spades. But, I wish I still wrote. Yet, even with my c-pap, I still don't sleep well; I'm tired all the fucking time. And depressed.
WOE IS ME.
bUT, as Mary said to her son, Jesus, at the end, there: "Get off the cross, wee need the wood."
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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