Mr. Deasy chases after him to deliver a final vulgar sally against the Jews. Ireland has a clean sheet in the matter of persecuting them because, wisely, 'she never let them in.' The New Bloomsday Book, p 10, kindle paperwhite.
The curse of naivete and sensory loss, a jingle of smirks, jibes, I had no idea Leopold was a Europeanized Semitic until Blamires cued me in, and I should have caught this earlier, even if I have difficulty hearing the summaries and questions of young Lance. My neighbor in the 14 above, David, is running his garbage disposal; the odor from his apartment during the renovations that started in 2007 freaked everyone out, everyone. I do not like him, but never complained, because I understood he was trying to do as much as he could for himself, and not attempting to victimize the octogenarian Nego league, but his apartment was so bad that Trudy's pressure may have borne fruit had he not complied, and he is a bad power chair driver, breaking his plumbing line and caving in my ceiling beneath his commode, a product and casualty of the inner city, he begs for change every so often, and this is another aspect of disability culture dirty laundry. In the interplay of progressive dialogue, a historian out of Harvard in the guise of Dr. Gordon-Reed has more to say to me than my neighbor above, solely a product of his environment, and a disruption therein. Do I have a right to judge David against the brutality of my own urban failure? Maybe not, but I should not have to have his lifestyle imposed upon my own standards of conduct.
For being drunk this morning, I did pretty well getting in, wailing to the guard I was a monster--"I am on the phone!" I managed, by three in the morning, to feed the children, undress, curse my father's voicemail, post here, rinse out my pants, and then, get into bed even with the shakes, soldier on with Ulysses because I was sick to my stomach, and then finally listened to kimmy's teeth, and got up, living on tea and mint, I may not be dead yet, but I know I am finished, and will never get to live in a spacious art studio, with a patron mindful of my demands and my autonomy both. The living death of Presby will ultimately be victorious, even if I fight like a wildcat, and sue Philadelphia Corporation for the Aging.
Did I really believe I was going to incite rebellion in a bar where I rolled in like the ghost of Bukowski? Still, thanks to Drinker's West. You are an accommodating establishment, and if I was a non competitive incongruity, the able and better made up women were nice, and I was happily multicultural and was cool. Why? Because I was able to make my own choices. Your establishment will be relieved to know I shall not become a regular fly on the tap, cannot afford it, but every now and then, since you have enough space, I'll make an occasional invasion. Rachel, little J-man believer sweetie, sorry if I stuck my foot in it, but I was in serious buzz land by the ball drop. I only saw one older man even remotely sexually exciting, and wonder if this is an evolutionary downgrade strategy, but I had a nice night, thank you.
The historian Annette Gordon Reed , who I mention above in terms of her comparative cast, her appearance on the newshour, is something I'd like to get to when my analytical penetration resumes online functioning. My title is a paraphrase of Gretchen's last rebuff. I was wrong not to accept my slaying by the Speakeasy community, as I have admitted, but by the same token, I cared about my 2002 regulars, and these loss of sustained connections do matter as we age, discarded.
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