Statue of Limitations

I am not partial to Jonathan Franzen's work. Is he a talented author? Certainly, but The Corrections lays itself itself out like a schematic for a haunted mill, whatever Franzen's attempted reinvigoration of the Tolstoyan tradition; like his patriarch Alfred, I am the dog who barked too late, without a progressive and sexy ailment which can be diagrammed to the point of excruciation. I have a graduate level accreditation, and a Grecian short order cook refuses to let me pay for her corner shop burger because I cannot enter her establishment. I have no references, have allowed myself to be beaten like a spayed bitch for 12 years, and even on a beautiful summer day in the middle of center city, for all that it mattered, I might have been in the middle of a zombie takeover. I cannot keep utilizing the old skins, and would in fact sooner rip out my entrails bare handed than ever work again for any CIL in the continuous United States, and though sequential clips with New Mobility would in theory show another editor that I can grease the skids, I cannot reasonably approach them for more work and expect to get a green light, not that I am attempting to over emphasize my Blogger posts, but they are cached, and on the record, and I am not keen to highlight technology and equipment I cannot afford, one, and two, I have nothing to offer them at this point that they would be interested in letting me cover, Ms. Byzek aside, and meanwhile...