One of those wincing days, getting up to comply with the public housing requirements as I've done with the same exact rental agent for 29 years at a frenetic pace, even though I know I'm leaving, trying to remind myself my little brother is following me and can read this, lest I revert to the stark corrosion which led to staff and scrip's support, but it is public housing which has bred my hatred, what my eye sees in the withered skin of these descendants of civil rights and slavery. If I stay I'm dead, and giving my notice merely expedites the matter. I went to a luncheon for the sake of a slice of pizza to listen to a next generation black professional talk about life insurance, and he was quite good at presenting, eliciting my elocution from my haggard frame, and if my mouth was a sword, I would have then committed mass murder: I snapped back at the older minorities who run the tenant's council, then debated Dominic in the lobby, a blustery white guy subsumed by his terminal cancer. You would not know he is dying, and I was as blunt with him as I am with anyone. Upon using the word "egalitarian" he said I was bullshit, that I use my acumen to camouflage my handicap. I sniggered. Wished him well, and here I am, expediting my death at the hands of Protestant positrons.
I'm really leaving, destitute as much through exterior ambiance as in emotional ravage, the film Winged Creatures strives, and fails, to authenticate sudden violence, depending heavily on the performance of Dakota Manning to hold the centrifugal force of the narrative, but as much as one may disdain agreement with NYT, the indie arcs here never meld, despite the cast, and Whitaker's character, diagnosed with his own metastasis, mopes his way through frailty. What concerns me is not that Woods attempts sincerity and unravels, but that writers should be wary of adaptive translation. As usual, the traumas resolve in holistic fashion, save for the diphthong of Beckinsale's far too nuanced denial of childhood neglect. It dims the desire to read an author like Roy Frieirich. His prose may be better, or worse, than his script, but both Frierich and Woods strive for an extended metaphor and wind up with the ubiquity of a Big Mac ground out of fillet, in summation of an unfortunate viewing experience-- it was one of my first films seen on the new Escape.
I cannot run from my limitations. I know that. I'm the textbook dirty cripple who challenges ambulatory endurance, but a battered women's shelter, in comparison to Presby's dominant minority management, feels like a fucking vacation. I have to let this location go. I know the state will win, eventually, but I'm still running; this is my response to what I knew would happen if I couldn't step it up. When I started blogging in 2009, I had 10,000 dollars left, transformed to ground carrion in six years. Poof.
PS: Personal loyalty means a great deal to me.
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