Um. Yeah. I guess I blow off inabilities - I sound like a Moose In Rut if I try to sing - I get pissed off about my disabilities.

I’ve gone through the whole whine about not having legs and crap but I’m fine with that until I attempt something stupid and fall from my chair. Dropping shite pisses me - I don’t have a full lap so going from kitchen to table with a plate of food can, sometimes, mean that it all ends up on the floor. I accept that my movement is limited, that my transportation is limited, that there is no workable position that allows me to wash dishes; I accept the big things. I have paid and unpaid helpers.

It is the god-damned little things that chap my arse.

Since I have been on my own, my disabilities have (not sure how to say this) grown worse. Only in the past 9-10 months have I realised that I needed to take some action lest I’m sent to a FINAL nursing home. So, I started becoming more aware of, f**k, everything. The position of my plate, questioning the bizarre aftermaths of what cameras proved to be sleepwalking, on and on.

I f**kin’ hate Clint Eastwood but I did see one of his ‘Dirty Harry’ movies while on a date in high school (I was an elitist film snob at that time, arguing in favor of the auteur and Andrew Sarris and blasting Pauline Kael’s gross ignorance of the auteur... unless one or the other had a differing opinion than mine) but three quotes from that film have become as iconic as Eastwood, himself: the first, “A man’s got to know his limitations,” followed by, “Nothing wrong with shooting as long as the right people get shot,” and, to end, (I had to resort to Google to get this one right) ”This is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world. It can blow your head clean off. You've got to ask yourself one question, Do I feel lucky?”

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned! I’ve used variations of the last to intimidate predators and those who pose a threat to my life or a friends’. I don’t carry a .44 magnum, though.

Back to my point (high, I am easily strayed!)... I am attempting to become friends with my limitations. I must. Or it’s back to... you know. I consider my plate, I make certain that it’s positioned well and that I can get it safely to the dining table. I have to consider every little detail before I move.

And I have to stop blowing off physical oddities.

To end. Inabilities describe what we lack. We may wish for, even become obsessed with, particular inabilities. But there’s something there not quite right, you know. Calligraphy. Although most of my writing has been worked out by keystrokes, I once had an ‘ability’ to write quick and sloppy block letters. I took a calligraphy class, once, in order to be able to write using a very specific historical script. Now, I had failed the ‘writing’ classes in grammar school (an attempt to train every student in the art of cursive writing) a full four years in a row. I left the calligraphy class after the first class. I lack the ability to write well (with the toot of an off-stage horn signaling the arrival of another double entendre, Rhonda).

My hope is that you’ll come to love your inabilities as much as you love the abilities of others. Lana Del Rey’s Lust for Life is amazing, but singing isn’t your talent. Isn’t your craft (while in my craft or sullen art I’m only fishing).

Inability. Enabling. Disability.

I need wheat flakes. Bye.