Fighting With Silent Leftists, Whether Die Swiftly or Linger in Traumatic Entrails

Arm chair positivists. What I haven't had for years is someone picking up the phone and hey Joanne, how you doing? Don't get discouraged. Want to come work for us? How can I pick apart what OZY indices on twitter means, why their members are members? Why they put me on an intriguing journalist list-- 2014 was undoubtedly my last active year, despite the tremulous energy I've thrown into my posts. Bobbi Kristina has ceased to be a flap jack. Maybe. Her case differs from Terri Schiavo in our arguments about value, efficacy. Schiavo became an irrational cause celebre with insinuations of spousal indifference. None of us can know the inside of the Schiavo marriage, just as none of us know if Nick Gordon is guilty, but if Schiavo was a cause, Bobbi is an unspoken casualty of racial celebrity unable to adjust to life in the bubble. Real fame is a curse, making black celebrity more of a tightrope, unless you were Diana Ross, but the vegetative body, it troubles everyone, the dead alive. Venezuela might have become a beat if Hugo Chavez, like the fictional Veronika Gronnegaard, lingered in a coma. Veronika doesn't linger long, and essentially dies for a daughter emotionally oblivious to the impact, however debilitating. Frederick, the eldest son, virtually goes into major depression. Gro loses everything. Sunshine/Singe loses her innocence and splits her family.

My mother's death, swift, pulled the lynch pin out of my family, and barring a miracle I die alone in upscale minority projects. I will probably never fully recover my health for a simple reason. I did not leave Riverside in 2006, which is when I should have, and my ability to endure this community is failing. That simple. I am dying because I cannot change my hostile environment, because I'd have to fight the disability center tooth claw and nail for absolutely nothing. I rip $450 out of their petty change budget, let's say. Nothing. The disparate poverty of their current client base is loathsome, and their information and referral staff still type narrative notes, poising the same questions, destroying my self-same determination they claim to uphold. Faust got to see the world for his deal with the devil.

My choice is stay, give in, take incarceration, or go back North, fifteen minutes uptown, so I can fall into spastic bitch trash slot. All because I'm not an anti-anxiety medications trying to control a classroom.

I believed in a dynamic life. This is simply going through the motions of American catacombs. No one wants an uncouth bitter bellicose happy anarchist fantasizing inglorious paybacks, skull fractures on a makeshift alarm clock as a weapon. There I have ideas, those reverberations of unwitting consequences. Even revenge comes cold.