Laurie's Fractures

I took the time to eat, and refreshed myself on the episode "Under My Skin," which is one of Anne Dudek's last recurring appearances on House as Cutthroat bitch, primarily because I pitied the ballerina, and needed to recall the mystery surrounding her skin sloughing off. Finished my oyster cheese omelet on cue for a change, no spills, minimum mess. This episode fooled me the first time. I thought Cuddy really was assisting House detox, and thought that the maverick actually did beat the rap, when it was the set up for Andre Braugher's entry, all the same, but even Braugher wasn't victorious, and House went from mental breakdown to prison; whatever the last episode will be, the moral of the series is that genius has a price tag, and that people don't change. I see now what the writers were doing. House was hallucinating his anti-social tendencies through Amber, and his conflicted attraction to decency through Cuddy.

I also took the time to mount my kindle drive successfully, I believe, no crash, and now I can work my article, one that is proving more difficult than I would have supposed, at first, and because I need the money, I'd prefer not to fail, but guess if I do, it is not the end of the world. You could no doubt jump into your shower, cleanse and reset, but my body will not hear of it, not tonight, not for fish oil, nor for Aleve, and I have no homeopathic remedy available for stress induced panic, surfing excepted, and I have to be online anyway, to start piecing what I have together, to see if I can emerge with the source that will coast me in over the next forty-eight hours. It has been rather educational, learning either that deaf support specialists are as insular as the Amish, or simply won't respond to a query. I am not sure just yet how far I am willing to browbeat local resources, whether making an actual roll in would shake me out an audiologist who has some seasoning.

In my sibling ruptures and on-going argument, and I'd say Stephanie and I are still fighting through non-communication, my brother told me he hopes I find closure, but I happen not to believe in it. The things that wound us may diminish over time, and yes, they have in my case as well, or I probably wouldn't be sitting here, but whereas a pedestrain double XX Slate journalist can write about losing her mother as a healthy passage through grief, losing my mother was not of the same arc, nor was losing my brother, nor my lack of a pleasurable sex life, nor the knives in my back from Linda and the disabled community around us, nor what I have been through in this city, and its home care services.

I carry a great deal more than most other able bodied female American writers, though maybe not quite as much as some African women might, not that the comparative measure matters, in any relevant sense. I argued earlier on against my twitter detractors that I was proud of my survival, but the moral of my story, whatever its conclusion, is that my price tag was simply too much, whether or not I can fairly assign blame. In many instances, I can't, even if I want to stretch, and say if my grandmother Pauline had committed her daughter after my mother's first suicide attempt, than this half-century of detail those of you with strong constitutions are actually reading, it would not be here.

Bringing Out the Dead is actually symptomatic of the American disease that most of us live, and that I firmly believed I deserved to avoid after the butchery of my youth. Perhaps my indignation will only become worse over time. The film is repeating, and I liked it so much I can reenter it that quickly, or, in other words, Scorsese finally scores in spastic's psyche!