lacrime per Argentina

I'm well over 20k in debt, thanks to the fact that this woman needed to draw me a picture about her orgasms,  before killing me with one of Tarantino's magic swords, a woman who is exactly the same, though she and I haven't exchanged 20 words with each other in 14 years. Pongo bitch delineating a tweak in the process, and voila, supported employment will give high function mentally retarded consumers more simulated affluence. I don't know what fucking planet she lives on anymore, essentially conceding segregation with equal treatment, remember that? Brown versus Board of Education was it? And with the default monkey on my back, I'd give a few of the most radical leftists a run for their money, bad hygiene, a threadbare 6 year old section 202 housing carpet, and I am giving a penny ante digital tabloid a hard time, sulking about them, and sore about my generosity with Karina, and it amounts to the same thing, in the charming phrase of Jerome Robart, it is about tariffs we place on good pussy, or in my case, good blow jobs. Despite the enviable image Ms. Dezenski has imprinted on me, clitoris as an actual allure doesn't work for me, and that was true even during my melt down right before Thanksgiving that November when I blew back on her and then became suicidal. I'll never forget that evening, alive and blogging to you now only because my mother had to die unexpectedly in 2005 and gave her children an insurance  payout. It vanished for my sister and half brother within the year.

I am right back where I started in 2006 after Miss Eddie from Unlimited Staffing molested me, with one exception. I haven't reapplied for Medicaid and SSI. I really don't want them, as regardless of the state in which you live, welfare of this sort is exceedingly restrictive, but I'm at a loss as to what to do next. 

If any of you would want the cash payment I gave Karina, which you wouldn't, it is ten dollars an hour basically to mop vacuum, laundry, at my discretion, except I can barely afford it anymore. I am on my last legs in a inner city Stalinist model that has caused me so much trauma. Linda is still a parrot, and I?

Let me tell you something. I cannot remember why I purchased David Mitchell's Cloud Atlas. The blame may lie with the New York Times reviewer, who was provoked to the height of sublime misery by Mitchell's work. I was so impressed by the fact that a writer made a blue blood unhappy that I had to have the book. When I finished it I then faced the most serious existential threat I had since I watched my stepfather torture little Nicky, my brother, before AIDS infected him. Mitchell made me cry. He caused me pain, because he made me realize I'll never have his talent. I staked my whole life on writing, on succeeding with it, on living up to the expectations of my most sympathetic teachers. I'm nothing more than a shit harpy whose former supervisor fucked up to the point of stoking hatred which thrives through centuries. 

Let me make one more point about Ray Rice and Janay: Now that I understand the extent of the player's violence toward his wife, we expect the NFL to arbitrate the behavior of its players. I'd tell Janay to get off her fucking ass, get a lawyer, and get a move on-- the league isn't going to succeed any better than the courts in protecting battered women. Those who know Janay need to make her realize she has to make her own meal ticket. A baller's wife may be a better surety than my talent with literature, but if Rice is injured or winds up killing her, then her security seems less certain.