So I stopped writing in this because I thought Google was shutting down Blogger. A whole lot has happened since then: My father died. I got a new cat. I bought an apartment: 2 bedroom, in Philadelphia. Stephen Sondheim died. The trache they gave me in Dublin destroyed my vocal cords, and the bashing paralyzed half my diaphragm. So I can longer sing with any of the quality I halfway managed before; it's non-existent. I've stopped finding pleasure in eating or drinking alcohol so I just don't, for the most part. This began a while ago, when The Quakers feared I might not shop properly and discouraged me from shopping, so they took it over, and my so my desire to cook is disabled too; even though my stove is electric, also carried over from earlier concerns is a fear in others that I might burn myself, or make a mess I can't clean up; I'm not allowed to cook, or rather, strongly discouraged. Everything that used to give me pleasure, eating food I'd prepared, having people over to share in a meal I'd made or conversation, among others, like singing or. acting, or even eating and drinking (alluded to, earlier), is gone. I've simply been so afraid of damaging other people's lives that I've damaged my own.
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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