Novel Outlines

"Is is is she okay?"-- a daughter whose nerves falter at the prospect of second degree murder.

Well, if loons and lesbians read my posts and see prime rib dollar signs, then I have to work harder. I don't have anything against those designated mentally ill in and of themselves. I don't even have much of an objection against those who think I'd be better off if I went back to therapy and played the pharmaceutical cocktail game in order to grin and bear it so sensitive minorities stop directing my url to hate crime notification units. I am doing what I am doing as a critique of identity politics and labels and fences, and the end result, as an informal tabulation, is a fellow resident unwittingly links me up with a Project Share user, my half brother and former university jilter insinuate that I am bipolar like my mother, the dyke cripples think I am dying to explore bi-nervous issues because letting my guard down with a former supervisor sent me along that prickly path. An indicator of what revelation amounts to at the end of the day.

For the most part, we neglect relatives of spree murders like Dorner. We more easily empathize with individuals like his captain, whose daughter Dorner killed to spread the suffering around. This isn't equivalent to the collateral damage of an insurgency, which is the distinction I was trying to make at one point, although many of you didn't like the fact that a self-proclaimed bigot could identify with a black Navy Seal who broke ranks with police collusion in a choice display of suicide by cop. A bit too dark, even if I am so severely jaded by ADAPT politics in turn. I am not Dorner to this extent: going after the relatives of those who screwed you over triggers the wrong calculus, and I prefer to bust the system by which we do this to ourselves, not engage in target practice on the pretty and happily oblivious.

I love my father, but happily avoided the fact of his serial domestic abuse. It was easy to blame my mother for her unceasing provocation, and to hate Louise for being the worst invalid of a stepmother imaginable. A visualized best seller in the over extended frantic need for money, but it is never so easy to get from your conceptual starting point to marketable product, absorbing it because we have to. All I ever wanted was my father to be Bill Bixby and love me, a prince among men, but how far do we go to save people from themselves? I am analogous to my mother's sister in this regard, sparing nothing to keep my ninety year old grandmother alive. Neither I nor my sister can stop the spigot of my father's rage, however, all but a sterile inheritance. Pause for the dynamic BBC upgrade of Sherlock, the most witty program about at the moment.