I wanted to write about the overly-medicalized stereotypical images of caregiving a lot of people carry around in their heads, so I entered the word “caregiver” into a search engine and then clicked images.
By the time the end of June rolls around, I will be either 63 years old or dead. I’m betting hard on the former.
Even when I do see crippled characters in movies and on TV shows, they still don’t look anything like me.
I imagine there is some set of etiquette rules that cripples are supposed to follow when lining up for treatments and cures, eh?
What does this social experiment prove? I guess it proves that Costco bouncers are somehow intimidated by my crippledness. Thus, they give me special treatment. But should I be insulted by that?
If you’re trying to bring together a large group of cripples, like to organize a protest or something, you can attract a good number of them the same way you attract alley cats. You put out free food.
This is about the time, every other year, when the various campaigns to get cripples registered to vote start cranking it up big time.
It’s time for me to clear away old resentments. I have to make room for the new ones.
The alternative to handing all my cash over to the government is to blow every last damn red cent.