JJ Abrams, modern Baptist

"You're in so much pain that--" Gretchen Laskas, banning me from the boards with forgotten similes

"I'm sorry you're in so much pain."-- Linda C Dezenski, trigger happy matron

I've yet to see mainstream media outlets link Malaysia Flight 370 to the revolutionary pilot that unfortunately imprinted Abrams on the national psyche. My aggregate may have done it, and I would not put such a move past The Huffington Post, although I will not attempt to verify this supposition, but it feels like an ominous parallel. Ample reason I do not wish to aggregate the mysterious incident, despite having a rationale to do so. Philadelphia has a changing demographic with its Asian influx in recent years, and though much of that influx probably doesn't utilize the Internet due to the language barrier, some have naturalized, speak American. Perhaps I'll change my mind, and callously turn it into science fiction hype, without designating it as newsworthy so as to not have any speculative arguments with Examiner managers I am not absolutely certain exist.

Gretchen, intrepid novelist, abandoned any link we actually had with each other; it was her prerogative-- I've abandoned people, and if certain Philadelphia activists attempted rapprochement violence would be the end result. Not television's glamorous violence, nothing in fact that some viewers wouldn't make fun of, old wheelchair user grabbing a developmentally immature homosexual's balls for a preschool bully battle, but I miss engaging with writers and authors. So stressed with monetary decline, however, aging into a kind of golden zealotry which cannot possibly exist, I am not sure my family understands the depth of my rage. Marie, father's sister, has an inkling, and the fact that she spent 550 on a Raymour & Flanigan deal is making me physically ill. I no longer have the luxury for this kind of outlay, but have an appointment with them Thursday, simply for a bedding replacement. The harder I try, the deeper I'm sinking. Therapy isn't going to help me. I have spent a lifetime parrying with clinical psychologists and triage psychiatrists. My mind is closed to efficacy of counselors. Not that I'm assigning blame, but the counselor with whom I was going to have an affair when Linda was enjoying her flauntlet with me, he suggested I'd implode. That wasn't an entirely useful insinuation, in retrospect. Not that I'm being hard on him; his marriage was failing. We wouldn't have been good lovers.