Yael Grauer is right about one thing: Choices we make intersect with how life experience molds our outlook. Emotional over-investment can impede success, as much as alienation can enhance it, but in reading her post about her depressed friend, the dividing line comes into play: why ambulatory people who have work they care about would commit suicide is beyond me, and her work smacks of an insular narcissism typical of all Americans. Who among us would want to be in Jason Rezaian's predicament, whatever our problems? An Iranian interment might change my mind about bronchodilators, perhaps with lightning speed, although it would be something for the imagination, wouldn't it? Pitting caustic spastic intelligence against the Persian Revolutionary Guard. Acute blunt force trauma, and voila, one bravely deformed skeleton is a minute addition to anthropology. Where was I?
Suicide, or my fascination with Burry's speculative success, his willingness to trust Michael Lewis with such an intimate portrait in The Big Short, which I'm reading on loan. If I tried to invest the little I have left in any sort of speculative fiance I'd run afoul of HUD. Libertarians may hate the Internal Revenue Service, but if they had the clout to dismantle HUD I'd be able to move toward decomposition with some residue of pleasure. Every public housing unit in this country and not a few university apartments, look exactly the same, perhaps built up with Chinese drywall.
Before I graduated to COPD, I had chronic bronchitis, which Rick might remember, and expectorants used to clear me up, with a great deal of fluid, and I've cheated myself this way for many years, like a leper in a Philippine sanatorium, yet another de facto colony of the United States. Why do Asians inhabit these islands? Like many disparate regions in Africa, things haven't changed outside of Manila, beyond Imelda Marcos absences for a lampooning article in Time, and never forgotten from my history lessons was McKinley and his deplorable governance of the islands at the turn of the century. Of course in 110 it has metamorphosed into progressive determinism, with typhoons and cluster villages ravaged by flooding.
Forget my conflicts with my building managers, work, take it easy, and bolt, one last time, die hard, die well, write a better post in forty-eight hours. Forgive myself for being an asshole, something I find rather difficult to do.
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