Coalbed methane developed from a safety hazard in coal mines to an unconventional gas reservoir in the last quarter of the 20th century.-- John Seidle in his preface on reservoir engineering.
Sigourney Weaver, like Ben Kingsley, has a versatile hard edge of definition I have often dismissed over the course of her career, though of course Gorillas In the Mist is a volatile film and is meant to be, leaving us little love for the poachers we do not execute for poaching. I saw video of hunters wasting an American mountain lion once and I would have wasted the bastards and told the courts to kiss my ass, not that this is an uncommon sentiment. Passions have to go somewhere. I did not dismiss Sigourney in the alien franchise. She made a preposterous take on evolutionary theory work, and I may not be dying quite yet. It may be gas build up when I do not eat and my stool doesn't move in position for a couple of days, again, not an uncommon problem, but with my small stature staying lucid is difficult without extra sleep, and then I have to destress until fecal waste decides to move, and then Joanne, wondering what the fuck happened to her life, sort of returns, her past never her past. I am trying to get a letter from Steve Gold, a Jewish lawyer who believes he has the right to judge what a disabled woman spends on cigarettes, and I put in three telephone calls to Disabled In Action, Liberty's political arm, prior to Thanksgiving 2014, and then found myself forced to control my desire to vomit and telephoned the center, twice, and had to threaten Information and Referral with a police contact before Connie dialed my number, and in attempting to call her back I got Linda Dezenski's voicemail and blew up in it; for a manager who left, that seems rather strange.
Again, I put it to you, the center was created for quadriplegics like me. I did my job, served their ideology faithfully, and when Linda turned on me, it was like being set upon by hooligans in middle school, in addition to the personal trauma she caused me-- then Liberty's case management staff disparaged me, repeatedly saying they would or did transfer my file after I was swindled and molested by two agency attendants, and the one thing that unites Senator Toomey and a squishy liberal homosexual legislator like Brian Sims is pity. Will anyone act? I doubt it, but I have to spend all my time on this nearly obscene absurdity because I am an expendable human being, because I did not bobble head myself right back up and file with the Philadelphia Human Relations Commission and receive a pittance of a settlement, and I'm hanging by a thread with an equally corrupt Protestant corporation who's life's blood is the low income elderly as an expendable class of person. A law firm on Logan Square dialed my number, and their receptionist will not bother to tell me what type of civil litigation the firm engages in. She hung up on me when I tried to find out. Futurists, who sound like theologians when discussing the trans-optimist advance of A.I., delude themselves with the notion of singular superiority.
Efficiency models don't say much about the price of human dignity when being damaged makes you useless at the age of 36. I cracked a molar on a pork rind, and since the day I emailed Linda about it, at 36, I haven't been able to afford the dental insurance for a damaged occlusion that would cost a fortune to repair. Linda's extension is 227. For Michael Nutter, this is as close as I get to becoming a deranged spree killer, the nanny state mayor of a provincial backwater who scolded the parents of Danieal Kelly over the media airwaves. Everyone's emotional armor relinquishes, but only at funerals, when we toss dirt on the coffin with pus faces. Only the truly bereaved live their grief, all for a damn piece of paper from a Jewish attorney who judges you with the appropriate apologia for your poverty. This is my clinical expertise in the mouth of Weaver's scarred forensic therapist.
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