Ditch Not Thy Ill

I really feel remanded to my familial estate. With the de facto illegality of thought in psychiatry relative to the economy; I will be happy to have my $1212/mo benefit arrive. I can legally work, as a “mentally disabled American”, amidst the Orwellian constraints, for up to $17k/yr over my monthly benefit. I broadcast, yet have yet to receive responses for the publication of my thesis, or, much less, any compensation for the education I was conscripted into my dutiful achievement of.

Thus far, my father has basically been my only employer since my 1998 diagnosis, and most of my utile industriousness was years ago. Simply, it is difficult to kick off a job interview by presenting credentials as I negotiate a lower salary, and to concurrently ask for my brain disability to be accommodated for. I can’t forgo my benefit, sure, yet the realities of ditching my tether to Uncle Sam’s funding of Yale’s $15,000,000 pharmacological brain experiment upon me has always concerned me.

And, the problem with my Peytorill Home Shop concept is that I spend my benefit on tools and other materiel nearly immediately and then invariably must wait weeks for another jig, more oil paint, lumber, or fasteners.

So, whilst PEYTORILL.com is possible to administer with merely my Samsung devices, I really need a woman apprentice for any valid culinary endeavors, gardening, estate silviculture, millwork cabinetry, and to pose supine and nude for me. I am, of course, economizing via my utile purposing of canvas as bed linen, and my prayers accompany my plea for a blessed cessation of now decades of imposed and unavowed celibacy.

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