Breaking Down Barriers, Right?

"I had to find my half-brother." -- an actor playing Lars Saabye

Did I drive little Benny off twitter, or, like me, was he too busy to manage multiple social media accounts? He in fact bears little resemblance to Stallone and might go for a more suitable comparison, like DiCaprio or Matt Damon. This is a reflection of a writer's skill kid. I am not going to move in your basement with your family now. No one has the funds for renovations, but where you and my father are wrong Benjamin, is to make me feel like a burden about it due to a four limb affectation I never asked for in surviving a dramatic premature birth. Yours was less eventful. Mom had a C-section, had her tubes tied, and I won't embarrass you in public any further about real fathers and shape-shifters, but it would have been better for me to have settled in with you and Dawn and your boys as opposed to sinking where I'm sinking. I am happy to have discovered your account is still active, and that I erred with search. If I had not followed up on that I might have stepped in it further than this: No one wants to be reminded every day of a segregated intake paradigm that burned me in a trade off with illegal nepotism for an LBGTQ couple so disadvantaged that they've launched two state and federal investigations. True, the failed physician is senile after its strokes, and its partner cuts me with lumbering bully umbrage, and instead of eating this daily, with the rest of my baggage, I could have tutored my nephews, negotiated a truce with your wife over fried egg plant. Nothing's perfect, but I would have been with family in a state where people still retain the notion of hospitality. You keep your distance with convenience, and Carlos Watson will now give Jozannyme! a wide berth, never mind his power politics with Gwen Ifill.

One thing I am only so-so with as a journalist is my contacts, and as I mention in Bigfoot, if Nortorious Person X has an unlisted number, for obvious reasons, then how the fuck do I approach the NPX, send a letter? I needed down time last evening, eating the anxiety of absolute defeat, and I only formulated one interview question. The Washington Post is not likely to take the pitch from me due to internecine rivalry, but Carlos and OZY is another matter, and I am watching them with peevishly narrowed eyes, ready to pounce, and hurting. My own family leaves me like a Bush-Gore hanging chad, and I've been turning myself inside out on this account which Blogger wants me to privatize because I endorse insurrection, reductionism, looking for solutions, and I paid a resource site to look for a room mate only to discover how marginalized architecture for the disabled is, in reality, and people can't handle the load I carry here online. I can't go bike-riding in the park. Denny O'Brien's yoga classes might be difficult for me to manage, and all parties involved want me to be rational about an attendant care system that has traumatized me many times over. How fucking wonderful it is to be alive. Jimmi Shrode warned me more than 16 years ago about California liberalism. I've had my rebuff from Jersey's too, because the white child abuse survivor wanted to talk to me, until Courtney queried with, "You know this is a volunteer position?"

Why wouldn't I have known it when I contacted the human preservation foundation? Oh, Rhett spoke what, 15 words to me about a different direction. When the welfare system kills me, you'll care then, I suppose.