I did not realize the attack I had this fine Saturday afternoon was a distressed stool in transit of its own accord. I thought it was gas. Sometimes an attack forces itself and there is little I can do but wait if I want to transfer. Indigestion had me fooled, and my constricted budget isn't going to help any. I don't even have wipes, which I use up in three month increments, and as used to it as I am, I'm set back. The cats are distressed, I'm distressed, and simply writing in carpe diem fashion, not that I didn't know my savings were in depletion. I worked so hard teaching myself Examiner's automated uploading, for what? Why am I such a doofus?
Now I'm doing the same with Medium, for absolutely nothing, my own agenda, not even bothering to query the publications I signed with on Ev's platform, though I've now mastered the editing props, I'm like a Russian, always in dissent between Western cultivation and Slavic stricture, going to lie down for an hour hope I can transfer smoothly later, no longer having the luxury of food when I want it. I could search for a cheaper ISP, cut myself off, partially at least, as digital life never really did much for me except make me feel badly, and the new platforms wouldn't even allow me to lash out and lose my temper, not in a combative duel (not that this is a legitimate exercise, as repetitive murder as a form of conversation was used by Stephen Dobyns. For me, it is a --not exactly psychosis-- a pathology perhaps, which no longer has any rationale. Nothing I can do will undo the harm that has been done to me. It may fall under the rubric of that's life, but my identity is on the verge of annihilation. If I attempted to become a domestic terrorist, I'd lose, not entirely sure how a quadriplegic would go about it, the only passion left in my life is vengeance. It means nothing. Women will always save cripples, as everyone has to be someone's patsy.
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