nccotus

I remember the inferior little person that I was as I looked up to my brother under the tree in the back yard in New Providence when I was 2 or three years old. He looked back at me with anger. We were all playing tag.

I realize now what that was. It was ITS. Infant Torture Syndrome.

I remember Altman’s. Going out for lunch at the old Short Hills Mall with my mother and ordering carrot cake with cream cheese frosting.

Reading children’s books. Riding on horseback. Our beautiful home. My mother was like Mrs. Ramsay in “To the Lighthouse” by Virginia Woolf. But my father was abusive. An English working class socialist. And my mother had issues too.

I read that book for months in Quincy House Dining Room at Harvard out of mealtime hours. Drinking free coffee mixed with hot chocolate and Sweet n Low and smoking cigarettes and squirting liquid diarrhea in the dining room bathroom in the back. It was awful what I did to that place and I do not know why they didn’t forcibly remove me.

Yes, it was also the wart-mole. At age 2 or 3 I didn’t have the broken pud yet but yes the ITS. They must have done it to Ian too. I was marked for suffering. He was marked also in a way I can’t confess.

I was separated from him through the Hopkins malpractice that cannot be fixed but the material damages need to be compensated for practical relief in the most catastrophic way. They took a situation and turned it to a worldwide calamity through this and two still deeper malfeasances, a secondary and tertiary lawsuits soon to be filed.