The Russian Tundra

At this point I should have compared the breaker of the law which makes such a fuss over a little spilled blood, with a poet or a stage performer."--Vladimir Nabokov, Despair

I am not well liked in The Washington Post comment section either, and perhaps set religious correspondent Michelle Boorstein back on her heels. Michelle wrote a laconic feature about Christian LBGT celibacy, and my skill at finding an impromptu thesis suddenly came back to me, but the fact remains no matter how clever I am advocating for a new century form of sexual repression, my hatred of homosexual practices invariably leads in one direction, which isn't particularly moral, nor practical. Something I've skirted around before.

Had the repugnant sloth from Unlimited Staffing been critically injured after that exploratory fondling, hurting the predator might have been justified, but it would have added even more trauma to be absorbed; progressives can wince all they please, but an unpleasant reality of attendant care culture is the attendee is often exploited by minorities for economic gain. One in three of every African American women who had to deal with my interior conditions asked me for money. I have stories that make the biracial bovine opportunist seem mild, which points to what liberals dislike about conservative reaction. President Nixon's observations about Jewish disloyalty is a monolithic oversimplification-- but anyone who has experienced Jewish prevarication can also see the late president's prejudices as formed by experience, and my experience with African American norms over the course of 29 years is one of significant disillusionment.

Would my posts offend minority journalists if I had a credible platform? I can assume it more than likely, but black dysfunction is akin to a virus, and it infects those who might otherwise have the best of intentions. Tolerance is not a panacea for women screaming behind a wheelchair to amuse themselves watching a spastic jump, or being shillyshallyed by this Haitian or that bank guard when looking for a housekeeper. Activists preach a gospel and treat community integration models like the ten commandments, and even when journalists write about the salient details, details which might belie the over reach of the rhetoric, conscientious readers can be left floundering. 

In Liza Johnson's understated 2011 independent, Return, the veteran deceleration is familiar, but Cardellini is briefly contrasted against an extra, an older minority woman, which speaks volumes about black authoritarianism constraining white suffering. The black clerical worker adheres to the procedure, and Cardellini is off in her own head, realizing, of a sudden, that she is alive on tour, not in her struggle with matriculation. I too want to put in my papers with the dead space of this city, bouncing off the offense of socially inappropriate nihilism formed in the caldron of corrupted pagans.

Now that I've imported my half brother to Twitter, I see family shrinkage growing even more equi-distant from emotional stigmata. Benny dodges my ferocity with the soft bruising of socially ambiguous caste.