Inundation

Under a great deal of stress, of course, as it relates to Relocation Manual. Google and Amazon will ride in to my rescue, certainly, with my battered psyche, internal giggle of bemusement, throwing my spears at the managerial weary minority Trudy because my white chick pick Karina didn't work out. I know you do not care, but it hurts that this unwitting Jesus two shoes bitch destroyed part of my independent press record, in essence triggering my final war against Presby that I will not truly win, even if I litigate it out. Philadelphia has essentially three tiers:

1. The nigger hustle, inclusive of white trash, that eats itself expendable;
2. The white moderately liberal professional class who work the center district and then return to rural New Jersey or Chestnut Hill;
3. The Jewish Italian remnant that tacitly smiles at the ghetto majority in order not to be targeted by it. Unlike me. My downward spiral is so evidentiary that "hello" on the Parkway from a hoodie in sunglasses is a fishing expedition for a welfare bitch, but it will never happen. I'll never be an addict ho, which isn't to say they will not assault again. They may. I'm weakening, probably never truly to resurrect a vindicated matriculation. Future hate crime on an axel, but be thankful we're not as sterile as the Finnish street scene. Talk about a static culture-- of all the European procedurals that have glazed me over since I rediscovered where Mindview has been hiding on WYBE, Jussi Vares seems the most authentically true to itself in its own social mores, not necessarily imitating or competing with American models.

The French get it right when they care to; the Swedes, not in any way detracting from Mankell, are so impotent they send me running back to Dick Wolf, and Italiano? The only argument Rome has left is to acknowledge that corrosion and incompetence have an incestuous compatibility, and yet, this is the genetic make up calling me home to 10,000 years of dust I'd never survive. How could I? With those ancient, narrow causeways? But I intend to die in Tuscany. WYBE has so successfully indoctrinated me I may end up trying my hand-- two unfinished novels why not a third where a devoted daughter suspects the worst of amato padre, si?