To die cradled in a decentralized exploitation model isn't much of a victory for matriculation, and that is what nigger filth like Miss Eddy forced me to remember-- not that a homoerotic experience would be a dangerous thrill, but that it gets people killed because it is duplicitous, dishonorable. My father let niggers hurt me when I was a child. My father let niggers hurt me because he married a sick and mentally unstable woman who needed to get away from an austere mother. The sick and unstable woman lost his son and managed to rip me out of her womb in grand theater, before she bore my dead brother. I wasn't good enough, so I could eat rust with Abraham Lincoln's burden. A university education didn't change much. Minor miracle that I once had a 3.5 GPA at all, within or without an institution.
Case management has been one continuous line of abuse, and no legal rhetoric, nor anything Liberty Resources represents changes that. The coordinators are mostly unattractive women who need an income and get one by behaving like den mothers, close ranks against the suffering and expulsion they generate, and yet, transvestites like Erik, bull dykes like like Nancy, they treat decentralization like a Biblical commandment. Erik, regardless of my animosity, is dying, and how following black Caribbeans around on a leash is better than centralized nursing care, this is not much of a differential
Sure, vulnerable crunchies like Louise, the online contact who chased me, they have civil service protection. I spent 16 years traumatized by the medical model, another three years patted on the head as an integrated Ridley Township school district token. My mother's lovers liked my tits. I run, dump myself onto Temple's vocational repositories. I sincerely hope my viewers have a more peaceful demise than that which lies in store for me. I cannot close the book on women like Eddy. I'm a quadriplegic over 50. For shit like her, my body, the loneliness in my face, is a banquet of gratuitous indulgence.
I take a risk stating the truth of my psyche: I want Linda Dezenski to suffer brutally for heaping more anguish on my plate than I should have had to bear; it isn't enough for her to die only once, and I'm cognizant enough to see the flag of life long learned masochism in the fact that I keep beating her, mentally, for turning on me, breaking me down because I advertised my personal loyalty as an exclusive commodity.
The Trader Joe's app is fun. If only it could spit me out a good man, one who cared about me enough for the patience of exploration. Off to the store. Meteorology is calling another storm, swirling us about, morbid cocoons.
Thursday, February 27, 2014
Crack Pipes
The opening of the 09 Pippa confused me at first due to still difficult ABC/WPVI reception, not West's direction. Woman directors tend to take more chances with vicious undercuts, and Rebecca's vintage is no exception. Initially I believed Bello, whom I tend to track through the buried anguish in those almond eyes, was the female lead, but I sorted the three blonds out before Arkin ran decrepitude to ground. Alan Arkin has recycled himself in interesting ways as the man who feels "the dirt in his mouth," but unlike my recent sexual appetites for hale septuagenarians, or the sandpaper smoothness of Jason Beghe (yes, I'd like to fuck the actor in the latest Wolf formula, just as I said in archive), Arkin carries a lizard like repulsion more suited to my distaste for Andie MacDowell. Crush is less chancy than Pippa, but McKay brings us closer to truth about impermanence of human bonds, to find the motif swimming in the undercurrent of a vacant first decade farce.
Linda has her side of the story, my former supervisor. Louise, the detachable Munchkin from the James list (ouch) with whom I stupidly Joanne you stupid fuck became familiar, told me this was confusing--my topic cut into my obsessive, dangerous pain with pongo stick woman. My sister and brother say the same thing about my verves in email. Sometimes this is deliberate, a writer taking chances with fragmentation, and pain. Linda has wiped out many subordinates before me, and the only reason I gained any ground on her is because our breach with each other violated the center's sacred federal mandate, but my posts with so many hints, not only indicate trauma that resets at ground zero of a massive depression, but may leave her vulnerable. Live wire risk, but I want her punished, removed from the center, and compensation for my trauma, knowing full well the trigger, my mental corrosion, is life abuse anguish that she unwittingly made lethal.
She did what she did in response to me mainly without much thought to it, and I pulled on her. Willpower to shut it down when she was really hurting me might have been the better part of impulse control which broke on me, but I cannot turn it back. If I haul Liberty into court, they will castigate my rather obvious fixation. I know this, but if I do nothing next time she will wind up killing another naive asshole. I did confuse her, but that was my subordination to her, fearful of being more forthright.
I am one of those, the one who jumps if an alpha like Linda gave me the height, the altitude. A challenge for white chick resolution films. I am unkind to my own passive recipients like Louise. I did not want knowledge of her brittle bones, and regret that I created the situation for termination, which indicates I'm as fraudulent as Limda, on a smaller scale. The only impact I had on the younger woman was to cease the shared experience interchange, but I had to. The interaction became an obligation rather than a desire, and if my trust was destroyed by real people, her OI wasn't any guarantee of safe harbor. Had she wanted creative writing emulation, I might have reconsidered.
I haven't had sexual intercourse since 1997, angry with the husband for leaving me vulnerable; he neither cared nor had enough time. Maybe you can understand why Linda's voice preening about convulsions with such self satisfaction is still an emotional scourge.
Linda has her side of the story, my former supervisor. Louise, the detachable Munchkin from the James list (ouch) with whom I stupidly Joanne you stupid fuck became familiar, told me this was confusing--my topic cut into my obsessive, dangerous pain with pongo stick woman. My sister and brother say the same thing about my verves in email. Sometimes this is deliberate, a writer taking chances with fragmentation, and pain. Linda has wiped out many subordinates before me, and the only reason I gained any ground on her is because our breach with each other violated the center's sacred federal mandate, but my posts with so many hints, not only indicate trauma that resets at ground zero of a massive depression, but may leave her vulnerable. Live wire risk, but I want her punished, removed from the center, and compensation for my trauma, knowing full well the trigger, my mental corrosion, is life abuse anguish that she unwittingly made lethal.
She did what she did in response to me mainly without much thought to it, and I pulled on her. Willpower to shut it down when she was really hurting me might have been the better part of impulse control which broke on me, but I cannot turn it back. If I haul Liberty into court, they will castigate my rather obvious fixation. I know this, but if I do nothing next time she will wind up killing another naive asshole. I did confuse her, but that was my subordination to her, fearful of being more forthright.
I am one of those, the one who jumps if an alpha like Linda gave me the height, the altitude. A challenge for white chick resolution films. I am unkind to my own passive recipients like Louise. I did not want knowledge of her brittle bones, and regret that I created the situation for termination, which indicates I'm as fraudulent as Limda, on a smaller scale. The only impact I had on the younger woman was to cease the shared experience interchange, but I had to. The interaction became an obligation rather than a desire, and if my trust was destroyed by real people, her OI wasn't any guarantee of safe harbor. Had she wanted creative writing emulation, I might have reconsidered.
I haven't had sexual intercourse since 1997, angry with the husband for leaving me vulnerable; he neither cared nor had enough time. Maybe you can understand why Linda's voice preening about convulsions with such self satisfaction is still an emotional scourge.
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
The Necessary Martyr Complex
The Russian backed destabilization of Ukraine represents the problem of autonomous regions trying to become nations. Analysts argue over what NATO is willing to do versus what Russia is willing to do to reabsorb the region. NATO, in typical fashion, marches up and down the field with the bagpipes harmonizing over the integrity of national sovereignty without being willing to give Russian re-expansion .a price tag. Putin's team plays spin the bottle in an attempt to reclaim parcels of its former empire. To what end?
I remember the disintegration of the Soviet Union as a blurry cataclysm during the transition from Gorbachev to Boris Yeltsin. There was a Time essayist who emerged during all this heady turbulence to inject a note of caution. Authoritarian regimes could always come back. Al Qaeda and Isis may have emerged as the tumor festering out of Muslim Brotherhood emasculated inferiority, similar to the Khmer Rouge in Southeast Asia. The Communist Party in China remains united. The Castro brothers seem determined that Cuba too remains socialized (as if the US was powerless to change that outcome, because the Bay of Pigs was a blot on Camelot best left buried in JFK's splattered brain), and Putin wants restoration, and yet, this is not the Cold War heating up again. Mao, Stalin, Lenin, these are museum pieces, replaced by Russian war lords and cronies who have ties to Putin's administration, and we've swapped the ominous notion of prescriptive ideology with the gentler concept of state model, yet Ukrainians are dying, and Europeans see the shadow of a fierce some bear on the horizon, as if to distract from more border tensions with the Chinese.
Ukraines have viewed my posts, perhaps marveling that American liberalism is not what it seems, and that it isn't. Few people actually have the luxury of freedom to do as they wish, especially in terms of migration. I do not know what to tell you, and your leaders were perceptive on the issue of giving up your nuclear arsenal. If you had kept it perhaps Putin would have trekked at a different pace. I do not think you can rely on the European Union, and even if a speculative Republican replaces Obama, that Republican has to acknowledge the reality of your border with your former motherland-- but your blood should not be being shed to restore an imperial mindset no longer applicable. President Nixon's call for a "free Kiev" was strategic. I doubt he envisioned the collateral damage in the embedded feed currently breaking our hearts.
I remember the disintegration of the Soviet Union as a blurry cataclysm during the transition from Gorbachev to Boris Yeltsin. There was a Time essayist who emerged during all this heady turbulence to inject a note of caution. Authoritarian regimes could always come back. Al Qaeda and Isis may have emerged as the tumor festering out of Muslim Brotherhood emasculated inferiority, similar to the Khmer Rouge in Southeast Asia. The Communist Party in China remains united. The Castro brothers seem determined that Cuba too remains socialized (as if the US was powerless to change that outcome, because the Bay of Pigs was a blot on Camelot best left buried in JFK's splattered brain), and Putin wants restoration, and yet, this is not the Cold War heating up again. Mao, Stalin, Lenin, these are museum pieces, replaced by Russian war lords and cronies who have ties to Putin's administration, and we've swapped the ominous notion of prescriptive ideology with the gentler concept of state model, yet Ukrainians are dying, and Europeans see the shadow of a fierce some bear on the horizon, as if to distract from more border tensions with the Chinese.
Ukraines have viewed my posts, perhaps marveling that American liberalism is not what it seems, and that it isn't. Few people actually have the luxury of freedom to do as they wish, especially in terms of migration. I do not know what to tell you, and your leaders were perceptive on the issue of giving up your nuclear arsenal. If you had kept it perhaps Putin would have trekked at a different pace. I do not think you can rely on the European Union, and even if a speculative Republican replaces Obama, that Republican has to acknowledge the reality of your border with your former motherland-- but your blood should not be being shed to restore an imperial mindset no longer applicable. President Nixon's call for a "free Kiev" was strategic. I doubt he envisioned the collateral damage in the embedded feed currently breaking our hearts.
Nylon and Chiffon
"I see oranges flying across the room."
Tavis Smiley grates on my nerves. The voice, the necessity of hustling through the segment, and chucking aside implosions away from PBS singularity, he is only a few decibels below cable news reactionaries of whom I view very little. But I paused for Robert English, who gave the most succinct capsule analysis of Ukrainian sectarian strife I have yet come across.
I may annoy my unseen overlords at Examiner/Clarity Media, and I did a wee bit of research on my no contract lovable slave driver-- let me put it this way-- I like the work, dislike Clarity's methods, and, if I get a chance, will one day assassinate Nero, in the vain hope that Claude Rains resurrects Caesar, which in translation means aggregation has an evil, sometimes egregious, tilt. But I may annoy Examiner once again and attempt to hone my analysis skills on Ukraine's crisis. Blame George Will; he gave me the idea to worry about semi-autonomous regions. Slowly moving onto my throne of institutional elder (I can hear Tavis ping Quincy: "What is going on with this dowager woman? I have access to the Pope and she infringes on the hospitality of the sisters man, hiding behind that pity.") I actually remember this man calling for a free Ukraine.
How the world has evolved since Watergate, but, by the same token, the developed world is in a post-ideological cataclysm. Not that I wish to defend Stalinism, but what is a Ukrainian national identity? neo-Nazism?
Say American. Say English. Say Russian, French, Italian, even Canadian, and we get a rough picture of pansy ass loggers getting back at their shared border neighbors with Wolverine. But the Crimea? What I know of the Crimean War I distilled from watching Trevor Howard get the Empire's hands dirty.
Clarity actually owns The Weekly Standard, and it would doubtlessly baffle Examiner's manager, if she actually exists and I persist in tracking down a live body, if I ask her for a name before I submit my portfolio, all of picturesque humility. I respect Will Self. Let him know that through the food chain.
Tavis Smiley grates on my nerves. The voice, the necessity of hustling through the segment, and chucking aside implosions away from PBS singularity, he is only a few decibels below cable news reactionaries of whom I view very little. But I paused for Robert English, who gave the most succinct capsule analysis of Ukrainian sectarian strife I have yet come across.
I may annoy my unseen overlords at Examiner/Clarity Media, and I did a wee bit of research on my no contract lovable slave driver-- let me put it this way-- I like the work, dislike Clarity's methods, and, if I get a chance, will one day assassinate Nero, in the vain hope that Claude Rains resurrects Caesar, which in translation means aggregation has an evil, sometimes egregious, tilt. But I may annoy Examiner once again and attempt to hone my analysis skills on Ukraine's crisis. Blame George Will; he gave me the idea to worry about semi-autonomous regions. Slowly moving onto my throne of institutional elder (I can hear Tavis ping Quincy: "What is going on with this dowager woman? I have access to the Pope and she infringes on the hospitality of the sisters man, hiding behind that pity.") I actually remember this man calling for a free Ukraine.
How the world has evolved since Watergate, but, by the same token, the developed world is in a post-ideological cataclysm. Not that I wish to defend Stalinism, but what is a Ukrainian national identity? neo-Nazism?
Say American. Say English. Say Russian, French, Italian, even Canadian, and we get a rough picture of pansy ass loggers getting back at their shared border neighbors with Wolverine. But the Crimea? What I know of the Crimean War I distilled from watching Trevor Howard get the Empire's hands dirty.
Clarity actually owns The Weekly Standard, and it would doubtlessly baffle Examiner's manager, if she actually exists and I persist in tracking down a live body, if I ask her for a name before I submit my portfolio, all of picturesque humility. I respect Will Self. Let him know that through the food chain.
Monday, February 24, 2014
American Socialism Over Yours
In the States Will, before the ACA, and even with it, Americans have a polygot system in terms of healthcare. Employer options never met my equipment needs. Medicare is another subject, but most of Liberty's consumers do not realize that the Medicaid waiver regulators hold the actual power. The *choice* a recipient of services has is the ability to retain or deny an assistant, and negotiate hours needed. Terribly inefficient. I am better equipped than you to examine Medicaid waiver allocation; so if anyone, or you yourself, are asking why I approached you, I get the sense that you aren't fooled by the realities of socialized care, and a real outside eye is useful.
I have been in Liberty's orbit longer than Linda Dezenski. In 89 I asked their acting director Ann Marie if I could "work there," and Linda hired me three years later, unwittingly transforming me into Johnny Abbes Garcia, though I had no idea I'd relish the role of an enforcer for a Jewish praying mantis (isn't psychopathy an entertaining subject?). Nine months. Ever since, it has gone like this: Joanne, we'll do anything for you, and then those assurances became ether. They violate state and federal law with impunity and recycle employee grievance lawsuits every 24 months; I am the only one of Linda's victims to have the stones to get her demoted by threatening the old guard with a federal lawsuit, and I am going to push those stones to retire the current board of directors, the senior executives, and sue PA's Department of Public Welfare while I'm at it.
If I was still 36 and healthy I would not care, and fight to be friends and competitors with you in the fourth estate. The CIL system, however, has done its best to destroy my health and welfare, and I'm going to fight it to my death; my posts here on the matter, tied in unfairly to representations in the arts, are the glimmering formation of an angry book. I'd genuinely like an alliance with a journalist of your ability. At heart we want to change the world, right?
I have been in Liberty's orbit longer than Linda Dezenski. In 89 I asked their acting director Ann Marie if I could "work there," and Linda hired me three years later, unwittingly transforming me into Johnny Abbes Garcia, though I had no idea I'd relish the role of an enforcer for a Jewish praying mantis (isn't psychopathy an entertaining subject?). Nine months. Ever since, it has gone like this: Joanne, we'll do anything for you, and then those assurances became ether. They violate state and federal law with impunity and recycle employee grievance lawsuits every 24 months; I am the only one of Linda's victims to have the stones to get her demoted by threatening the old guard with a federal lawsuit, and I am going to push those stones to retire the current board of directors, the senior executives, and sue PA's Department of Public Welfare while I'm at it.
If I was still 36 and healthy I would not care, and fight to be friends and competitors with you in the fourth estate. The CIL system, however, has done its best to destroy my health and welfare, and I'm going to fight it to my death; my posts here on the matter, tied in unfairly to representations in the arts, are the glimmering formation of an angry book. I'd genuinely like an alliance with a journalist of your ability. At heart we want to change the world, right?
Sunday, February 23, 2014
Dilatory Care: An Open Post to Will Self
Dear Will Self,
Sometimes I have to resist the impulse to make connections to other writers; it has gotten me into trouble in the past, particularly when I wrote letters, real letters, to ugly male poets, or sick male draft dodgers (American) who hibernated in Montreal until they abandoned their wife and son. I got caught with my proverbial panties around my ankles with that incident. Perhaps it should have taught me a lesson, long before I recognized my former supervisor online, and that she bitch nearly put me in Liam Neeson’s mortuary.
I do not know that I’d consider Dave mentally ill, the draft dodger. The adjective used was the cry of his ex-spouse’s pain when dealing with a seductive manipulator. Her husband out maneuvered me at his own game, which might be just as well. He might have raped me, as I was young and feckle enough for the marriage bed, as many men from my past can attest. I was a heat seeking missile for a five Euro fuck. The abuse had not really erupted full blast into my psyche then. I was young, and sleeping with ambulatory men who had no discernible physical impairment was important to me.
“False Blood” your essay in Granta 117, is typical for the publication, and I cannot really ferret out the keynotes within it that made me want to rush to email to contact you, telling you about my dead addict brother. I resisted. You’re British, married, with children, and actually earn a viable living in our profession. Your blood condition is uncommon and sounds like a typical, if otherwise charming, British eccentricity. Whereas cerebral palsy is run of the mill. Even spastic aggression is run of the mill. I know I am not in motive to seduce you. My libido only rears its head in odd moments, I’m tired of being rejected by men online who won’t be bothered even to meet me to give me a chance, and I remember then what my former lesbian editor did to Cecil, and I wish someone would bust Josie for me, for doing that to my prospects, but it wasn't illegal, and women are known for despoiling out of jealousy.
No, I do not know how to cope with the stress of what the black nursing aides did to me. When added up to what cerebral palsy has cost me in terms of sexual assaults and medical brutality, it might as well be a small miracle that bouts of ideation aren’t worse. I have mentioned the mixed race woman Miss Eddy, who hit on me. She is a sick and ugly person, and told me her father was murdered, which might be her fate if she doesn’t learn how to contain her attacks on the down low. American black vernacular for secret sexual perversions. I do not enjoy wanting horridly ignorant poor people dead, but she may exploit other invalids and since I did not file charges against her I cannot prevent it.
Two others stand out. A voodoo lady from Germantown who Liberty afflicted me with not days into my mother’s death. Straight out of a studio zombie casting, missing teeth and a head turban. She opened my mail illegally, looking for a will, frightening me terribly. In this city you learn, and I could smell it on her, that she would have robbed me at the nearest opportunity of physical incapacitation. I could not even grieve for my mother with this poison hovering over my ass, trying to victimize me. No one helped me; I had to get her out of my studio, keep her out on my own recognizance; in fairness it wasn't in the bankruptcy lawyer’s purview to be of assistance but she is the person to whom my terror was revealed.
The disability center coordinators know full well the type of paraprofessional prototype which lends itself to criminal solicitation, and yet they continue pairing indigent minorities with the most vulnerable among the mobility impaired, essentially creating expendable classes and manufacturing tokenism to call it freedom.
Cassie's elevation creates its own form of tunnel vision which is ultimately a contradiction in terms. Cassie knows it. Josie knows it, and this is why the culture expiated me out. I refuse to accept the paradigm and see it as a low grade genocide metastasized to such a degree on the east coast, west coast, American rust belt, that it is nearly impossible for a body to extricate out of it.
The other was Ingrid Bunton who wore her dead newborn as a decal and slept with one of the security guards who came banging on my door. She impregnated herself on the job and the scandal made me a laughing stock.
I do not have an answer as to why I have singled you out with this type of half way measure, a post on my blog to which you need not reply, but I am reaching out to a stranger who has had his own battles, a stranger who might understand. I intend to put my disability center out of business; their evil has to be reigned in, and no federal mandate is such a vapid excuse for criminal incompetence. It is not within your range to help me, doubtlessly, and you’d probably chastise me for insinuating such an incongruous folly. You have your isles, but your work has struck a chord in me. Sincerely.
Sometimes I have to resist the impulse to make connections to other writers; it has gotten me into trouble in the past, particularly when I wrote letters, real letters, to ugly male poets, or sick male draft dodgers (American) who hibernated in Montreal until they abandoned their wife and son. I got caught with my proverbial panties around my ankles with that incident. Perhaps it should have taught me a lesson, long before I recognized my former supervisor online, and that she bitch nearly put me in Liam Neeson’s mortuary.
I do not know that I’d consider Dave mentally ill, the draft dodger. The adjective used was the cry of his ex-spouse’s pain when dealing with a seductive manipulator. Her husband out maneuvered me at his own game, which might be just as well. He might have raped me, as I was young and feckle enough for the marriage bed, as many men from my past can attest. I was a heat seeking missile for a five Euro fuck. The abuse had not really erupted full blast into my psyche then. I was young, and sleeping with ambulatory men who had no discernible physical impairment was important to me.
“False Blood” your essay in Granta 117, is typical for the publication, and I cannot really ferret out the keynotes within it that made me want to rush to email to contact you, telling you about my dead addict brother. I resisted. You’re British, married, with children, and actually earn a viable living in our profession. Your blood condition is uncommon and sounds like a typical, if otherwise charming, British eccentricity. Whereas cerebral palsy is run of the mill. Even spastic aggression is run of the mill. I know I am not in motive to seduce you. My libido only rears its head in odd moments, I’m tired of being rejected by men online who won’t be bothered even to meet me to give me a chance, and I remember then what my former lesbian editor did to Cecil, and I wish someone would bust Josie for me, for doing that to my prospects, but it wasn't illegal, and women are known for despoiling out of jealousy.
No, I do not know how to cope with the stress of what the black nursing aides did to me. When added up to what cerebral palsy has cost me in terms of sexual assaults and medical brutality, it might as well be a small miracle that bouts of ideation aren’t worse. I have mentioned the mixed race woman Miss Eddy, who hit on me. She is a sick and ugly person, and told me her father was murdered, which might be her fate if she doesn’t learn how to contain her attacks on the down low. American black vernacular for secret sexual perversions. I do not enjoy wanting horridly ignorant poor people dead, but she may exploit other invalids and since I did not file charges against her I cannot prevent it.
Two others stand out. A voodoo lady from Germantown who Liberty afflicted me with not days into my mother’s death. Straight out of a studio zombie casting, missing teeth and a head turban. She opened my mail illegally, looking for a will, frightening me terribly. In this city you learn, and I could smell it on her, that she would have robbed me at the nearest opportunity of physical incapacitation. I could not even grieve for my mother with this poison hovering over my ass, trying to victimize me. No one helped me; I had to get her out of my studio, keep her out on my own recognizance; in fairness it wasn't in the bankruptcy lawyer’s purview to be of assistance but she is the person to whom my terror was revealed.
The disability center coordinators know full well the type of paraprofessional prototype which lends itself to criminal solicitation, and yet they continue pairing indigent minorities with the most vulnerable among the mobility impaired, essentially creating expendable classes and manufacturing tokenism to call it freedom.
Cassie's elevation creates its own form of tunnel vision which is ultimately a contradiction in terms. Cassie knows it. Josie knows it, and this is why the culture expiated me out. I refuse to accept the paradigm and see it as a low grade genocide metastasized to such a degree on the east coast, west coast, American rust belt, that it is nearly impossible for a body to extricate out of it.
The other was Ingrid Bunton who wore her dead newborn as a decal and slept with one of the security guards who came banging on my door. She impregnated herself on the job and the scandal made me a laughing stock.
I do not have an answer as to why I have singled you out with this type of half way measure, a post on my blog to which you need not reply, but I am reaching out to a stranger who has had his own battles, a stranger who might understand. I intend to put my disability center out of business; their evil has to be reigned in, and no federal mandate is such a vapid excuse for criminal incompetence. It is not within your range to help me, doubtlessly, and you’d probably chastise me for insinuating such an incongruous folly. You have your isles, but your work has struck a chord in me. Sincerely.
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
Terms of Service
The Peruvian Maoists killed people with rocks, clubs and knives in hand to hand combat.-- Santiago Romcagliolo, page 148
The effects of nicotine vapor shortage, and the custodial employees doing me a favor, so they believe, by unlocking my door to leave pet supplies in the kitchenette; it disrupts my colon solidification, my need to stay off my pressure sore; sometimes leaves me unable to go back to sleep without pushing toward exhaustion. If I forbid Mike Pera or Niles entry in relation to what may be added labor for me to push up to my unit, I may end up regretting it, but Wednesday morning was physiologically frightening, even with pastrami and a nice spinach salad; no coffee, though I need a pot this evening, two and a quarter cups with the big fellow here; not sure if my total caffeine intake has increased accordingly, just as I'm equally uncertain if I should apologize to viewers for behaving like the typical road rage quadriplegic. Despite my efforts, I am a quadriplegic who has sustained systemic modal failure, and I could not lock in focus, and relaxation, with Pera's horse's ass boot jacking and my need to clean up after cats I am weary of raising, bound in obligation.
So you saw a peek of how similar I am both to David Foster Wallace, with too much heart, and an Alawite member, with vested and ruthless interests. A calcified outcry not quite contained by the 3600 milligrams of salmon oil, though by now the dead spawn has done its saturation.
Adaptation was never the main issue: When John and I knew each other as students, he captured in his critique of my work how cerebral palsy altered my spatial relation; it was an astute capture from the man whose children I longed to womb gestate. He is the only Italian American whose sons and daughters I wanted to bring into the world, but this is my point. All I possess, to countermand the sexual assaults and institutional cruelty I sustained, is longing for what I cannot conceptualize, literally: bipedal motion and perspective.
Violations I know. Walking on two feet might as well be as fantastical as warp drive. Back to work, but I do not see my desire for controlled euthanasia as irrational. If I have been brutalized out of the meritocracy, I'll be damned if I will allow a nursing home to utilize my body for a malpractice portfolio.
The effects of nicotine vapor shortage, and the custodial employees doing me a favor, so they believe, by unlocking my door to leave pet supplies in the kitchenette; it disrupts my colon solidification, my need to stay off my pressure sore; sometimes leaves me unable to go back to sleep without pushing toward exhaustion. If I forbid Mike Pera or Niles entry in relation to what may be added labor for me to push up to my unit, I may end up regretting it, but Wednesday morning was physiologically frightening, even with pastrami and a nice spinach salad; no coffee, though I need a pot this evening, two and a quarter cups with the big fellow here; not sure if my total caffeine intake has increased accordingly, just as I'm equally uncertain if I should apologize to viewers for behaving like the typical road rage quadriplegic. Despite my efforts, I am a quadriplegic who has sustained systemic modal failure, and I could not lock in focus, and relaxation, with Pera's horse's ass boot jacking and my need to clean up after cats I am weary of raising, bound in obligation.
So you saw a peek of how similar I am both to David Foster Wallace, with too much heart, and an Alawite member, with vested and ruthless interests. A calcified outcry not quite contained by the 3600 milligrams of salmon oil, though by now the dead spawn has done its saturation.
Adaptation was never the main issue: When John and I knew each other as students, he captured in his critique of my work how cerebral palsy altered my spatial relation; it was an astute capture from the man whose children I longed to womb gestate. He is the only Italian American whose sons and daughters I wanted to bring into the world, but this is my point. All I possess, to countermand the sexual assaults and institutional cruelty I sustained, is longing for what I cannot conceptualize, literally: bipedal motion and perspective.
Violations I know. Walking on two feet might as well be as fantastical as warp drive. Back to work, but I do not see my desire for controlled euthanasia as irrational. If I have been brutalized out of the meritocracy, I'll be damned if I will allow a nursing home to utilize my body for a malpractice portfolio.
A note on ecology and domestication
The aggregate for whom I am penny pimping AND NEED RESIDENTIAL AREA SUBSCRIBERS TO INCREASE MY COMMISSION (the residents of my building probably fall within Examiner's target range outside of sports actually but I have to weigh how much I'm willing to compromise my principles for ignorant Jesus spouting hypocrites) ran a story on Marius the giraffe-- or more correctly, the editorial team sent the aggregates who slave for them a link to search engine feeds. I briefly considered running with the head winds-- but my passions lean toward killing humans who kill cats and predators, not herd animals--it may also surprise you to learn I've never yet threatened an animal abuser, though it is tempting.
I take issue with Marc Bekoff, however. Was it cruel to kill a healthy two year old male who properly belonged on the African savanna? Yes. Ever see a lion take a wild giraffe down? That is cruel as well, whether or not the bolt gun is more humane than asphyxiation through curved fangs. I doubt either is pleasant in the shift from life to carcass, just as my death at the hands of
a. an abusive paraprofessional
b. phlegm in my pulmonary tissue
c. other, primarily related to pressure sores and anxiety in developmental aging
will not be pleasant. Evolution is brutal; humans have done a great deal to both mitigate and prove this unfortunate fact, and the optimist belief that we can divorce existence from the brutality ranging from the cellular levels of consumption through orcas hunting blue whales, is too much hubris, even if transhumanism is all but ushered in upon us. I'll be happy to take the bolt gun off of the Danish. When I am ready perhaps an inner city banger will do the honor. It appeals to me more than sleep potions or bullets. I was tremendously angry at Wallace for his suicide, which was odd for a couple of reasons. Before he hung himself, I only read of his novel in passing and had no idea who Wallace was; investigation pissed me off, because he was, and had, everything I had hoped for myself. Humanist marriage, talent, students, fans, for Christ's sake, as well as the intuitive ability to use the immersion of disability in his work to offer a searing and penetrating perspective, and the genius greaseball fucking hangs himself because he is in pain. I'm evidently not finished being really mad at a complete stranger whose work is nearly a virtuoso display of anguish. It should have been me instead, this is what my heart cries. I am still here, in this fucking provincial n---* shanty backwater where I was born in the fucking best of it public fucking housing system because its other units are pestering boils of post traumatic stress.
I am still here, and I should have never come back.
I take issue with Marc Bekoff, however. Was it cruel to kill a healthy two year old male who properly belonged on the African savanna? Yes. Ever see a lion take a wild giraffe down? That is cruel as well, whether or not the bolt gun is more humane than asphyxiation through curved fangs. I doubt either is pleasant in the shift from life to carcass, just as my death at the hands of
a. an abusive paraprofessional
b. phlegm in my pulmonary tissue
c. other, primarily related to pressure sores and anxiety in developmental aging
will not be pleasant. Evolution is brutal; humans have done a great deal to both mitigate and prove this unfortunate fact, and the optimist belief that we can divorce existence from the brutality ranging from the cellular levels of consumption through orcas hunting blue whales, is too much hubris, even if transhumanism is all but ushered in upon us. I'll be happy to take the bolt gun off of the Danish. When I am ready perhaps an inner city banger will do the honor. It appeals to me more than sleep potions or bullets. I was tremendously angry at Wallace for his suicide, which was odd for a couple of reasons. Before he hung himself, I only read of his novel in passing and had no idea who Wallace was; investigation pissed me off, because he was, and had, everything I had hoped for myself. Humanist marriage, talent, students, fans, for Christ's sake, as well as the intuitive ability to use the immersion of disability in his work to offer a searing and penetrating perspective, and the genius greaseball fucking hangs himself because he is in pain. I'm evidently not finished being really mad at a complete stranger whose work is nearly a virtuoso display of anguish. It should have been me instead, this is what my heart cries. I am still here, in this fucking provincial n---* shanty backwater where I was born in the fucking best of it public fucking housing system because its other units are pestering boils of post traumatic stress.
I am still here, and I should have never come back.
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
Are the English European?
Momentary chuckle. Yes, I can answer my own question about why these pond mates are following me. Twitter is primarily a promotional format. I've had little to convey in positive or negative fashion about the European disabled community other than to offer mild praise to the journalist Will Self, who came to my attention through the indomitable Granta Magazine, whose editors are engaged in a conspiracy to turn the clinically depressed into pub sausages, or just horribly slow in updating their next travel issue.
I'd love to write a Granta travel essay. I know the voice right here, underneath the pungent odor of little Vincento's piss. Hard to tell if he has feline dementia as he has always been rebellious with the litter box before I came to bear responsibility for his brother's death, and it is mine, not the veterinarian's. Joey did not like a urinary tract diet and he wore my nerves. I'm guilty. Philadelphia has nullified my spirit, however, so interesting Granta's readers in any rite of passage of mine will take some doing. Warning to @EnhancetheUK: I can be vitriolic, and I have my own little personal black book of assassination targets, if you believe you can tolerate that.
However, I turned on the Toshiba in the opening of a trying week of bloody busy weather, and it cheered me a bit to find you. 8mate is it? Or is that Australian? If I want to convert and vandalize the limousine of Prince Charles and Camilla I'll give you a toot. And oh yes, I intend to get this independent living center dissolved for corruption, hate crimes, and illegal collusion, and I am going to do it, too.
Stay tuned.
I'd love to write a Granta travel essay. I know the voice right here, underneath the pungent odor of little Vincento's piss. Hard to tell if he has feline dementia as he has always been rebellious with the litter box before I came to bear responsibility for his brother's death, and it is mine, not the veterinarian's. Joey did not like a urinary tract diet and he wore my nerves. I'm guilty. Philadelphia has nullified my spirit, however, so interesting Granta's readers in any rite of passage of mine will take some doing. Warning to @EnhancetheUK: I can be vitriolic, and I have my own little personal black book of assassination targets, if you believe you can tolerate that.
However, I turned on the Toshiba in the opening of a trying week of bloody busy weather, and it cheered me a bit to find you. 8mate is it? Or is that Australian? If I want to convert and vandalize the limousine of Prince Charles and Camilla I'll give you a toot. And oh yes, I intend to get this independent living center dissolved for corruption, hate crimes, and illegal collusion, and I am going to do it, too.
Stay tuned.
Monday, February 17, 2014
Johnny Abbes
He wished to banish from the minds of chivalry around him his own indecent and unacceptable jest respecting the Jewess Rebecca;" Sir Walter Scott, Ivanhoe, location 1650, or as an object of crystalline hatred, to remind my .0001% regulars, second woman from the right
O, rest assured, part of this is self-flagellation for my own gullibility, never to be entirely gotten over, which earns contempt. I want to destroy a kindergarten case management psychological mindset because its ape like antics, and I mean the literal social agitating of shrieking chimpanzees, did me so much harm.
Woody Allen's defenders are invested. Wilder must have his dwindling share of proponents as well, yet I was never partial to either the wit and anxiety of the former, nor the hyper-manic slapstick of the latter, despite Young Frankenstein, which had its moments of bestial abandon, one that triggers the primate grin to forestall aggression. Why does dissimulation trigger homicidal rage? In the attempt to balance her excellent magazine feature on Allen's immolation of his stature, Phoebe accented that Mia threatened to kill her former partner. Is there any woman out there who doesn't understand such sentiments? If this had turned into the next OJ Simpson trial, Farrow had a justified defense.
*
I have no regrets in my purchase of Llosa's novel, despite the novelist's deep leftist convictions-- yet multiculturalism is not a salve for Caucasian trauma of lighter touch. San Domingo and Haiti are apparently separate countries on the same insubstantial island as a matter of skin tone: Haiti is an African colonial commonwealth of the US, and Trujillo's old patch is a Spanish-Indian infusion with a little more self reliance. I thought I was buying something else, back when I vacuumed up e-ditions for kindle. WTF do I care about this sorry land mass and the legacy of its diaspora? What is Llosa demanding of my empathy, and how much genocide do we have to carry to our graves?
Since I am confronting mortality of my relatively horrific life, with the back of Jerry's corduroy blazer before my youthful asinine eyes playing "The Cripple Who Loved Me," like an Ian Fleming title track, this is the failure of my potential: I have researched Haiti for years. I have handfuls of articles on its flamboyant and ruthless leaders, fascinated, wondering why we don't just eradicate this sorry excuse for a civil society, because I created a Haitian psychiatrist for a longish satirical spy thriller where King Arthur and Guinevere are father and daughter engaged in incest, sodomizing the knights of the round table. I kill them all in the end; hate the story and don't know what I'm doing with it, but like my Haitian psychiatrist. I had no idea Llosa had written a nearly identical tale, but novelists cannot change the world. Mario sort of does what I thought. Crippled lions, k cera, cera
O, rest assured, part of this is self-flagellation for my own gullibility, never to be entirely gotten over, which earns contempt. I want to destroy a kindergarten case management psychological mindset because its ape like antics, and I mean the literal social agitating of shrieking chimpanzees, did me so much harm.
Woody Allen's defenders are invested. Wilder must have his dwindling share of proponents as well, yet I was never partial to either the wit and anxiety of the former, nor the hyper-manic slapstick of the latter, despite Young Frankenstein, which had its moments of bestial abandon, one that triggers the primate grin to forestall aggression. Why does dissimulation trigger homicidal rage? In the attempt to balance her excellent magazine feature on Allen's immolation of his stature, Phoebe accented that Mia threatened to kill her former partner. Is there any woman out there who doesn't understand such sentiments? If this had turned into the next OJ Simpson trial, Farrow had a justified defense.
*
I have no regrets in my purchase of Llosa's novel, despite the novelist's deep leftist convictions-- yet multiculturalism is not a salve for Caucasian trauma of lighter touch. San Domingo and Haiti are apparently separate countries on the same insubstantial island as a matter of skin tone: Haiti is an African colonial commonwealth of the US, and Trujillo's old patch is a Spanish-Indian infusion with a little more self reliance. I thought I was buying something else, back when I vacuumed up e-ditions for kindle. WTF do I care about this sorry land mass and the legacy of its diaspora? What is Llosa demanding of my empathy, and how much genocide do we have to carry to our graves?
Since I am confronting mortality of my relatively horrific life, with the back of Jerry's corduroy blazer before my youthful asinine eyes playing "The Cripple Who Loved Me," like an Ian Fleming title track, this is the failure of my potential: I have researched Haiti for years. I have handfuls of articles on its flamboyant and ruthless leaders, fascinated, wondering why we don't just eradicate this sorry excuse for a civil society, because I created a Haitian psychiatrist for a longish satirical spy thriller where King Arthur and Guinevere are father and daughter engaged in incest, sodomizing the knights of the round table. I kill them all in the end; hate the story and don't know what I'm doing with it, but like my Haitian psychiatrist. I had no idea Llosa had written a nearly identical tale, but novelists cannot change the world. Mario sort of does what I thought. Crippled lions, k cera, cera
Saturday, February 15, 2014
Soon Yi and silent acquiesce
When you started aborting, we were still watering-- Vincent Peloso
I am critical of the nanny state over which Nutter resides and Arenda adjudicates with an overzealous tilt. I have trolled in reactive fashion over my dimly varnished view of African American culture, thus diminish any creditably I might have once wielded with what I perceive to be legitimate criticism. I realize this culture isn't monolithic, and can strive to command respect. Despite the fact that I am uncouth, and more than not dismissed by serious scholars who put in a great deal of leg work, I do respect McWhorter, but his iconoclastic streak sometimes confuses me about his reactive tendencies.
The governance of the city of Philadelphia is rather sterile; this is not solely attributable to Nutter's administration. PA is one of the original 13 states, and Quaker imprinting hasn't always been conducive to the dynamics of entrepreneurial energy. Liberty's static existence is a microscopic representation of Philly's sterility, with little pockets that thrive, like center city finance. Center city urban design; it isn't enough against the stoic fatalism of black residential areas-- or even the Rosenbach's tacit acceptance of neighborhood fruitcakes-- a rare criticism of the the museum's insular yet egalitarian embrace of the residential disparities within its ranks.
I migrated back to Philadelphia shortly after the Move bombing, in my incalculable timing, and I'll say this for Wilson Goode: He started a tradition of ineptitude getting our city serious media coverage. Not that this is a form of urban exceptionalism: NYC is as sordid as Woody Allen's arousal triggers, and the the adopted daughter he grafted from Mia has the poise reminiscent of a Khmer Rouge survivor-- which takes us into the caverns of Shoah beneath the sting of Woody's satire-- his early work even had a subversive anti-Semitic charge thrown at it, one I am not studied enough to analyse fairly; Detroit is a smaller inner city version of Brotherly Love. Even San Francisco has the Tenderloin-- but what it illustrates is that the left is not free of the socialist tokenism Ralph Ellison so brilliantly crucified now nearly 3 quarters of a century behind in Invisible Man.
The Obama Administration friend zone designation is more of the same. I have to try and go out now in this weather for dry cat food. A stressor to finish me off, perhaps.
I am critical of the nanny state over which Nutter resides and Arenda adjudicates with an overzealous tilt. I have trolled in reactive fashion over my dimly varnished view of African American culture, thus diminish any creditably I might have once wielded with what I perceive to be legitimate criticism. I realize this culture isn't monolithic, and can strive to command respect. Despite the fact that I am uncouth, and more than not dismissed by serious scholars who put in a great deal of leg work, I do respect McWhorter, but his iconoclastic streak sometimes confuses me about his reactive tendencies.
The governance of the city of Philadelphia is rather sterile; this is not solely attributable to Nutter's administration. PA is one of the original 13 states, and Quaker imprinting hasn't always been conducive to the dynamics of entrepreneurial energy. Liberty's static existence is a microscopic representation of Philly's sterility, with little pockets that thrive, like center city finance. Center city urban design; it isn't enough against the stoic fatalism of black residential areas-- or even the Rosenbach's tacit acceptance of neighborhood fruitcakes-- a rare criticism of the the museum's insular yet egalitarian embrace of the residential disparities within its ranks.
I migrated back to Philadelphia shortly after the Move bombing, in my incalculable timing, and I'll say this for Wilson Goode: He started a tradition of ineptitude getting our city serious media coverage. Not that this is a form of urban exceptionalism: NYC is as sordid as Woody Allen's arousal triggers, and the the adopted daughter he grafted from Mia has the poise reminiscent of a Khmer Rouge survivor-- which takes us into the caverns of Shoah beneath the sting of Woody's satire-- his early work even had a subversive anti-Semitic charge thrown at it, one I am not studied enough to analyse fairly; Detroit is a smaller inner city version of Brotherly Love. Even San Francisco has the Tenderloin-- but what it illustrates is that the left is not free of the socialist tokenism Ralph Ellison so brilliantly crucified now nearly 3 quarters of a century behind in Invisible Man.
The Obama Administration friend zone designation is more of the same. I have to try and go out now in this weather for dry cat food. A stressor to finish me off, perhaps.
Friday, February 14, 2014
Rosemary's Thistle
#3: Soon-Yi was Woody and Mia’s adopted daughter. False. Soon-Yi was the adopted daughter of Mia Farrow and André Previn. Her full name was Soon-Yi Farrow Previn. -- Robert B. Weide
---------
What authenticates The Burrowers isn't Petty's underlying condemnation of what forged the last, now doddering, superpower. Any polemic in narrative can do that; it is his real appreciation for hands on tactile sensation. The soil, and foolish human primates roaming about on it until they forget themselves and become carcasses. Ulee's Gold, more than a decade older with subtly different aims, nonetheless has a similar physicality. The curious thing about Peter Fonda's poignant swan song, I might add, is, despite my displeasure with Easy Rider as a self-conscious farce, it provides Ulee with a textually richer undercurrent that would have been lacking otherwise. Derivative pleasures like this become somewhat complicated, always improving on older origin concepts.
To indulge my underlying misogyny, my loathing for Jane Fonda, which is visceral, doesn't spill over to Peter. He is quieter, less of a chameleon flitting across the screen, to quote from Jane's daughter with the delightful cruelty of an accurate observation (and yes, I give Jane credit for giving Charlie Rose this gem), and I'm more in sympathy with his center of gravity. Ulee's Gold was my life with my mother and her raucous lovers. The film gives viewers a sense of resolution: Ulee relents, realizing his son and daughter-in-law aren't beyond reform. This is a gravely wounded family, but one that doesn't quite break once the avarice of the white punks is harnessed and contained. The industry has to be placated, but we all know that addiction doesn't work that way. My dead brother can't be walled off in my bereavement as a monster. Yet he was indifferent to any number of things: the shame he brought to my family, committing felony rape, infecting himself with AIDS, not because he had any experience with sodomizing men, but because he blithely used dirty needles. The end of his life in 1995 was agonizing. "We had a brother who was a bit of a shyster." This is how my sister summed up little Nicky for my ex, the Nicky who passed HIV onto his girlfriend without my mother deigning to interfere. She was afraid of possible litigation.
The engine of the freight train has been idling on track a quarter mile off from my window since Thursday morning, giving me palpitations. I'd do anything to get out of Riverside, anything, except there is little use in exploring other public housing options within the city. I already know I couldn't expect to find creative and safe solutions networking online, so I research Woody and Mia, condemning sexual liberalism. What no one is willing to say directly is the price Allen made Mia Farrow and her children pay for his trophy happiness with Soon-Yi. He sounds like John Updike's failed little boy with his thumb stuck up his ass. I do not know if Dylan's memory of molestation is true or false, but that she did not like Woody's thumb in her mouth, that felt real to me. My stepfather sneak fondled my breasts that way.
I started writing my own piece on the scandal. Because of Roman Polanski, what I relearn reviewing his mastery of repression, of what he intimates about sadism. More than that; yet as to Farrow herself, I never saw myself as a fan, not in terms of her performances. The poem never leaves me, the one in my head with wombs and spawn, the World Trade Center, the Empire State building, through her eyes. A few years ago, I caught the revision of the piece in hand, then lost it with the Vista driver crash. I have to redo all that research once again as well. Hypothetically, if I get it published, tweet her a link, how would I react if she thanked me for the tribute?
I'm unsure. If Woody had done to me what he did to her, he'd be dead; I'd be a cause celebre in prison, so in terms of being aggrieved, I have picked a side. That does not necessarily mean, as a disability journalist, I need access to her. I am not Orth, the Vanity Fair journalist who reignited old rivalries.
Would a mutual interaction be beneficial? Ambivalent about that, what she's like beneath the pixie damsel of Roman's coaxing, or Allen's irony.
---------
What authenticates The Burrowers isn't Petty's underlying condemnation of what forged the last, now doddering, superpower. Any polemic in narrative can do that; it is his real appreciation for hands on tactile sensation. The soil, and foolish human primates roaming about on it until they forget themselves and become carcasses. Ulee's Gold, more than a decade older with subtly different aims, nonetheless has a similar physicality. The curious thing about Peter Fonda's poignant swan song, I might add, is, despite my displeasure with Easy Rider as a self-conscious farce, it provides Ulee with a textually richer undercurrent that would have been lacking otherwise. Derivative pleasures like this become somewhat complicated, always improving on older origin concepts.
To indulge my underlying misogyny, my loathing for Jane Fonda, which is visceral, doesn't spill over to Peter. He is quieter, less of a chameleon flitting across the screen, to quote from Jane's daughter with the delightful cruelty of an accurate observation (and yes, I give Jane credit for giving Charlie Rose this gem), and I'm more in sympathy with his center of gravity. Ulee's Gold was my life with my mother and her raucous lovers. The film gives viewers a sense of resolution: Ulee relents, realizing his son and daughter-in-law aren't beyond reform. This is a gravely wounded family, but one that doesn't quite break once the avarice of the white punks is harnessed and contained. The industry has to be placated, but we all know that addiction doesn't work that way. My dead brother can't be walled off in my bereavement as a monster. Yet he was indifferent to any number of things: the shame he brought to my family, committing felony rape, infecting himself with AIDS, not because he had any experience with sodomizing men, but because he blithely used dirty needles. The end of his life in 1995 was agonizing. "We had a brother who was a bit of a shyster." This is how my sister summed up little Nicky for my ex, the Nicky who passed HIV onto his girlfriend without my mother deigning to interfere. She was afraid of possible litigation.
The engine of the freight train has been idling on track a quarter mile off from my window since Thursday morning, giving me palpitations. I'd do anything to get out of Riverside, anything, except there is little use in exploring other public housing options within the city. I already know I couldn't expect to find creative and safe solutions networking online, so I research Woody and Mia, condemning sexual liberalism. What no one is willing to say directly is the price Allen made Mia Farrow and her children pay for his trophy happiness with Soon-Yi. He sounds like John Updike's failed little boy with his thumb stuck up his ass. I do not know if Dylan's memory of molestation is true or false, but that she did not like Woody's thumb in her mouth, that felt real to me. My stepfather sneak fondled my breasts that way.
I started writing my own piece on the scandal. Because of Roman Polanski, what I relearn reviewing his mastery of repression, of what he intimates about sadism. More than that; yet as to Farrow herself, I never saw myself as a fan, not in terms of her performances. The poem never leaves me, the one in my head with wombs and spawn, the World Trade Center, the Empire State building, through her eyes. A few years ago, I caught the revision of the piece in hand, then lost it with the Vista driver crash. I have to redo all that research once again as well. Hypothetically, if I get it published, tweet her a link, how would I react if she thanked me for the tribute?
I'm unsure. If Woody had done to me what he did to her, he'd be dead; I'd be a cause celebre in prison, so in terms of being aggrieved, I have picked a side. That does not necessarily mean, as a disability journalist, I need access to her. I am not Orth, the Vanity Fair journalist who reignited old rivalries.
Would a mutual interaction be beneficial? Ambivalent about that, what she's like beneath the pixie damsel of Roman's coaxing, or Allen's irony.
Friday, February 7, 2014
Letters to iconic old men
With an estimated 43 million smokers left in the US, it shows the Surgeon General has a cushy salary without much leverage, or that free market capitalism is as polite a fiction as socialism; more than this, juxtaposes itself badly. Government moralizes and rages over dried tobacco, but legislators refuse to criminalize nicotine, then we spend millions interdicting marijuana. Unlike you, real Nimoy, I do not advise cessation. Cold turkey is crueler than the addiction.
Addictions seem to be long form terminal illnessses, and I only quit due to inadvertently setting my hair on fire, cooking a portion of my back, scarring my shoulder. We share the same disease in COPD, however. Your stage at 82 years is nearly mine some 30 odd years your junior. Your tweets surprise me, like instant oatmeal. Why this is I don't know-- or I suspected portraying Spock made you insane, and you ramble like a sweet old fiddle, but that is 82.
I'm a bitch, to say the least, not that admitting this to a character actor who fed my youth is a deliberate attempt to be unkind-- merely a wall. My grandfathers are dead, but the simplest of them lived to 88. Celebs with grandchildren ignore bitches, not that this is relevant while I wearily plod the keyboard after profiling your appearance in wheelchair for my a la carte aggregate. Kimmy my kitty puked twice in the last 24 hours and I hope it is a hairball regurgitation. She seems fine, but I worry. I don't mind aggregating so much. Journalism fuels motivation, but I am a good writer and want to work for a better company. Difficult affair with all my disadvantages. Maybe loneliness isn't it. Grasping at the relevance of your past limelight? "I have no regrets." That was your line with Brent Spiner. (I always forget his last name doesn't double consonant on the n.) Two automaton fencing, but Data was nothing like a real android, and this is somewhat aggravating. Your talent imprinted better, if this softball accolade is something of a kindness from a sister raspy voice, a fan of Trek from a distance. Trekkies are frightening. The role playing nearly religious fervor is a bit fucked up. I went to one convention with a black blind man who had glaucoma. Never again. Your bread and butter, the fans who lose themselves over the voyages of the Enterprise. Patrick Stewart was my fuckable. No one else did it for me. I envy his wives and respect the authority he projects and couldn't handle access to him. I'd flush and need to borrow your oxygen, raving maniac for a Shakespearean sugar daddy. Now I'm being facetious while we both die from vice and unintended consequences. I missed access to your 66 Deathwatch when I still had Netflix. Amazon doesn't list it. May have to settle for YouTube.
Affection, yes, I have that. I miss Peter Falk, but prefer suffocation to advanced dementia. My mother laughed at you and Shatner on the bus in the first movie. Small things like that make moments. Good luck to you. Best I can do in lieu of my cynicism. Dare I have the nerve to advise you? Die well, and do not allow your spouse to go the unseemly route of Chaz Ebert, with her video of Roger's last months.
Addictions seem to be long form terminal illnessses, and I only quit due to inadvertently setting my hair on fire, cooking a portion of my back, scarring my shoulder. We share the same disease in COPD, however. Your stage at 82 years is nearly mine some 30 odd years your junior. Your tweets surprise me, like instant oatmeal. Why this is I don't know-- or I suspected portraying Spock made you insane, and you ramble like a sweet old fiddle, but that is 82.
I'm a bitch, to say the least, not that admitting this to a character actor who fed my youth is a deliberate attempt to be unkind-- merely a wall. My grandfathers are dead, but the simplest of them lived to 88. Celebs with grandchildren ignore bitches, not that this is relevant while I wearily plod the keyboard after profiling your appearance in wheelchair for my a la carte aggregate. Kimmy my kitty puked twice in the last 24 hours and I hope it is a hairball regurgitation. She seems fine, but I worry. I don't mind aggregating so much. Journalism fuels motivation, but I am a good writer and want to work for a better company. Difficult affair with all my disadvantages. Maybe loneliness isn't it. Grasping at the relevance of your past limelight? "I have no regrets." That was your line with Brent Spiner. (I always forget his last name doesn't double consonant on the n.) Two automaton fencing, but Data was nothing like a real android, and this is somewhat aggravating. Your talent imprinted better, if this softball accolade is something of a kindness from a sister raspy voice, a fan of Trek from a distance. Trekkies are frightening. The role playing nearly religious fervor is a bit fucked up. I went to one convention with a black blind man who had glaucoma. Never again. Your bread and butter, the fans who lose themselves over the voyages of the Enterprise. Patrick Stewart was my fuckable. No one else did it for me. I envy his wives and respect the authority he projects and couldn't handle access to him. I'd flush and need to borrow your oxygen, raving maniac for a Shakespearean sugar daddy. Now I'm being facetious while we both die from vice and unintended consequences. I missed access to your 66 Deathwatch when I still had Netflix. Amazon doesn't list it. May have to settle for YouTube.
Affection, yes, I have that. I miss Peter Falk, but prefer suffocation to advanced dementia. My mother laughed at you and Shatner on the bus in the first movie. Small things like that make moments. Good luck to you. Best I can do in lieu of my cynicism. Dare I have the nerve to advise you? Die well, and do not allow your spouse to go the unseemly route of Chaz Ebert, with her video of Roger's last months.
Thursday, February 6, 2014
Dance The Jitterbug
Come learn how to care for the feral and stray cats in your community and make use of the many resources now available to assist you
The line between commiseration and pity can be porous, or run the gradient of a fine tooth comb. I feel an ironic level of antagonism that I actually feel sorry for Leonard Nimoy. I have been blessed by fawning old niggers, comforting me with their liberation theology Jesus, since I was sweet sixteen trying to get laid in NYC (blacks need to learn to stop pulling this shit; it's getting old boys) and I feel sorry for the man who was Spock. A talented actor typecast into a wax figure, and I feel sorry, as if I should go run and buy his book that every entertainer writes when they become identified with their roles.
To satisfy my travel mug fetish I was going to buy this one. I've left it bookmarked, as it is chic, but I spotted this one on site, four dollars less, and if I start dosing a pot a day we're in trouble, like mice under the oven.
The line between commiseration and pity can be porous, or run the gradient of a fine tooth comb. I feel an ironic level of antagonism that I actually feel sorry for Leonard Nimoy. I have been blessed by fawning old niggers, comforting me with their liberation theology Jesus, since I was sweet sixteen trying to get laid in NYC (blacks need to learn to stop pulling this shit; it's getting old boys) and I feel sorry for the man who was Spock. A talented actor typecast into a wax figure, and I feel sorry, as if I should go run and buy his book that every entertainer writes when they become identified with their roles.
To satisfy my travel mug fetish I was going to buy this one. I've left it bookmarked, as it is chic, but I spotted this one on site, four dollars less, and if I start dosing a pot a day we're in trouble, like mice under the oven.
Sunday, February 2, 2014
Sciatic Isotopes
"It's surmountable."-- Miles O'Brien, always on CNN
Adding to texture, even sexually arousing in a bizarre liberation toward a thanatological analysis, JT Petty also toys with reversal expectations in his admirable film. When Karl Geary leads his little posse in search of his fictitious band of indigenous marauders, and they find the girl with the spasmodic movements of her lingering humanity in her toe, the dialogue suggests a lethal Alien cavity burst. We don't get that. The actual burrowers are swarmers, an ambiguous terror, overgrown termites bursting out of a nightmare. Placing Doug Hutchison in the appropriate frame, he played the southern commander who doesn't get picked off, doubtlessly there are correspondences to be extrapolated from that, in his projection of dangerous virility, he would no doubt think my former supervisor's scathing epithet of sweetheart an apt dismissal of why I can't play with men like him.
I can see why he found Stodden a platinum trophy. That long nosed sexual suggestiveness is something Susan radiated outward in her youthful sexual adventurism, my former best friend and was she really? But I cannot pry too deeply into memories that suggest disdain. Sue did care about me, but her friend Kim mocked my vacant facial expressions; it hurts more now that I did not understand that Kim was suggesting the dowager buffoon by pretending to drool in her lap. Pretty girl, raven actress looks with curly black hair, almond eyes. Rich cherry pout for a mouth. She taught me about English coins, having been across the pond.
Should Sue be out there, on FB or whatnot, reconnecting wouldn't help. There is too much pain in our mutual past alone for it to be surmounted. To play a game of six degrees though, if you know an aging blond in her fifties whose unmarried name was Davison, I send along a deep hug to pass on. I loved her once; hope she found happiness. What the fuck is that, eh?
Adding to texture, even sexually arousing in a bizarre liberation toward a thanatological analysis, JT Petty also toys with reversal expectations in his admirable film. When Karl Geary leads his little posse in search of his fictitious band of indigenous marauders, and they find the girl with the spasmodic movements of her lingering humanity in her toe, the dialogue suggests a lethal Alien cavity burst. We don't get that. The actual burrowers are swarmers, an ambiguous terror, overgrown termites bursting out of a nightmare. Placing Doug Hutchison in the appropriate frame, he played the southern commander who doesn't get picked off, doubtlessly there are correspondences to be extrapolated from that, in his projection of dangerous virility, he would no doubt think my former supervisor's scathing epithet of sweetheart an apt dismissal of why I can't play with men like him.
I can see why he found Stodden a platinum trophy. That long nosed sexual suggestiveness is something Susan radiated outward in her youthful sexual adventurism, my former best friend and was she really? But I cannot pry too deeply into memories that suggest disdain. Sue did care about me, but her friend Kim mocked my vacant facial expressions; it hurts more now that I did not understand that Kim was suggesting the dowager buffoon by pretending to drool in her lap. Pretty girl, raven actress looks with curly black hair, almond eyes. Rich cherry pout for a mouth. She taught me about English coins, having been across the pond.
Should Sue be out there, on FB or whatnot, reconnecting wouldn't help. There is too much pain in our mutual past alone for it to be surmounted. To play a game of six degrees though, if you know an aging blond in her fifties whose unmarried name was Davison, I send along a deep hug to pass on. I loved her once; hope she found happiness. What the fuck is that, eh?
Saturday, February 1, 2014
Molar Snippets
The Burrowers (09) has antecedents in the earlier American sneak-hit, Tremors. The difference lies in the send up. Tremors has its fun poking at the creature genre, and offered the audience nicely plotted irony. Burrowers, however, caught me by surprise, half tempting me to send This a fan mail for running a very well done movie that took itself seriously and aimed a devastating impact at reactionaries like me. Along with District 9, Burrowers falls into my knapsack, scantily loaded, of rave favorites; it is the type of film I hoped online users would recommend for this thrashing thesis. As to the specifics, and a hats off to JT Petty (too young for me to hit on alas, but I'd send out a fucking wedding proposal in an eye blink)-- I'm a bit tongue tied, inured to being idiotic, but it brought me back to the one multi-cultural issue I've equivocated over, been ambivalent about, perhaps, and not quite parallel to Cape Town as a Dutch company carved out of a continent not quite tamed, and that is the systemic pacification of the American Indians.
I've taken heat, at least online, for pushing back against white guilt over atrocities, without necessarily snickering at indigenous romanticism over its tribalism, though it is also true I run out of patience with it. I've held my fire, saving it for the I'm ready to fight gay radical equality. A few of you may have noted by now that I have little love for egalitarianism. Canada scores on this one. I know when I have to cede the field.
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