Fully-able people just plain don’t understand disability.  They can’t.  Not really.
For the able, disability is temporary.  They heal.  The pain and the suffering have an end date.
For the chronically disabled, the suffering is endless – if not absolutely constant, or even consistent.
This has been the biggest difficulty to adapt to as my life has changed in the last few years.  My understanding of this phenomenon is still developing.  My acceptance is proving much, much slower to develop.  My disability is not great, escpecially not in a relative sense.  But goddamn.
But, I think, I am finally coming to terms.
I’ve stopped asking, “When will it stop?”
I’ve started asking, “How do I manage it for today?”

About what does one write, when one has as much ability to give a shit as in impacted bowel?  Which is to say, I am….  I can’t.  I just…can’t.  And yet, I feel…compelled…to express myself.  With absolutely no concomitant compulsion regarding subject matter.  I can stir up no definite opinions, nothing that seems worthy of expression.  Let alone anything that seems to require such effort.  I do no give a flying prolapsed anus about any of it.  Which is almost certainly little more than a defensive reaction to the wholesale slaughter of human/humane ideals that we see every day.  But even recognizing that, and acknowledging the vanishingly small urge to express myself, and taking onto account my inherent laziness….

I can’t.

I also, it would appear, can’t stop.

If I had just a liiiiiiiitle more drive, I could be a passable politician.

Fuck that shit.

And good night.