And this is why I'm not an industry critic

"Some lines should never be crossed."-- Jason Lee

I did not recognize Jason Lee in Chasing Amy. I did not follow My Name is Earl all that closely, and for absolutely no reason but cheap thrills I'd assault Ben Affleck and then have the preoccupation of being investigated-- not that Affleck is a priority for the FBI, but of course I'm being specious, posting in coded language because angry people online get stupid and wind up at the Supreme Court, and even if I tried to engage in criminal activity, my lungs have turned scarlet with carbon monoxide, and that is mostly my fault, but not entirely. I have things to do and I'm sick and if I cave in to being ill, why don't I just resign myself and let the system triumph? How can I possibly gain any form of vindication at this point?

And what the fuck is Thomas Vinterberg trying to say? Donald Levit marshals insights very ably, much better than I ever could in a kaleidoscope of dystopian gloom, but a movie cannot trope in obfuscation like a villanelle, or a bad imitation of Shyamalan, and expect to get away with it leaving the viewer with such a bizarre punch card whose intent cannot be interpreted, Africans dangled like trophies. And I've been accused of literary pretension. Parts of It's All About Love are indeed interesting, resting on forceful, stark dialogue between Joaquin Phoenix and his ex-wife's goon squad, toying with the ever insidious threat to personal identity, playing with the baroque, but this movie makes the Scandinavian procedural seem as inviting as the impact of Hill Street Blues crime series realism.

Now that how poorly I feel has receded into the background, all I have to do is debate writing or lying down, moving my goals ahead a few days--I will not die in peace, that is a fiction-- but with what little I have left, I am desperate to move on. I understand dying aunt's argument that Riverside is the evil I know, and given my poverty I can't expect better, but my family can't understand how untenable this is given what I have been subjected to, and that I cannot keep bowing under and taking it. Trudy Richardson uses what tools she has to threaten and intimidate me, and since she has no legal means to make me some other institutional problem, she yells back "Then give your notice!" as if I could pack and cart blanch relocate myself, imposing on dead and past writer friends who couldn't handle giving me the adaptations I need, while my other aunt wants to make it worse, move me in with Alzheimer patients. Yes, some of you are working three jobs, crushed by student loan debt yourself, but I resigned from the Matrix Institute in 96, and have survived this in a series of diminishing returns, in exactly the same shit hole, for 18 years.

I'd love to fight for a real job again, but who is going to accommodate an overweight ex smoker whose bowel was a misadventure even when she case managed the mentally ill who were so dosed with psychotropics that my employment was nothing more than an excuse to keep me off welfare, the fieldwork over stressing me through no fault of the psychological overlords whose efficiency model would have gotten them wiped out at Google's command center?