Bell Bottoms Template

The flowers were indeed very very fresh: small autumn roses that were or had run wild. Joachim Neugroschel's translation, page 82.

Herve Villechaize had a vocation as a painter. The black and white photo spread of the once impoverished dwarf kneeling on the floor with his paint brushes may have appeared in Life Magazine; it may also have appeared in People. It was definitely not his newspaper obituary, but this is what immediately came from memory when Fantasy Island hit poor greaseball spastic trash recycled broadcast, aside from how tacky the show actually was. Look at the episodes now and wince, though Montalban is finally dead too, after braving his vanity by baring diseased shins on Chicago Hope. It breaks the heart, the eagerness and anticipation every week for quite stupid fantastical television which may have been the seed for my novel about characters disappearing to an island and made Abrams rich instead.

Chronic obstructive pulmonary disease is strange, at least within the damage matrix of cerebral palsy. Every time I am ready to dial emergency hospice the lung phlegm seeps down into my spastic colon and fecal discharge has a field day. Two or three days of shit pus, and then it starts all over and barring an unexpected traffic accident or otherwise violent death in Black Urban Landscapes, this is how I am going to die. This is how I am going to die unless unless I live long enough to get digitized, Jesus Fucking Christ in the most exasperated expression of real life horror I can utter. Comparatively it isn't enough, how lucky I am compared to native Koreans or Africans. If I was in their particular geography I could not compare myself to America's public housing police state for losers. Just as the industry wasn't enough for Villechaize. He probably regretted the gun shot and the triage if he was conscious after his injury at the utter lack of dignity involved in the attempt to keep him alive. Sutures, IV. Clinical applications are more dehumanizing than any comic routine in white suits with Mexicans he did not like.

There is a blog contest at some press, and if I entered it the entire literary community would no doubt read me the riot act, and then some. I'd lose on design outright because I have no idea how to design and none of you have written a dam word since I opened this account. In a brief email exchange with a literary editor, I tried to hint nicely that I needed subscribers to my Examiner page and she hinted nicely she needed financial support. I bit my lip. My desire to support journals through subscription is dead on arrival, this artistry on which I staked my muted east coast life. Poor Herve, whether or not he picked the better of two lousy choices for unhappy people within broken bodies. I never properly knew any midgets, just those with brittle bones, and one of those was a participant in the ugly incident my spastic supervisor thrust upon me.