Behind The Bars Schematic, With Sharp Hazel Glint

I never knew Patrick McGoohan was American born. I thought he was British, and his image was carefully crafted as such, that precursor to James Woods' hypermania. Perhaps I could go desecrate his grave and go out on a weird news item. I got up late and watched the tiresome Danes of Unit One despite myself and inadvertently went down memory lane with All Night Long, ate a little and managed no further misadventures on the toilet, and honestly do not know if I am dying due to my cop down to nicotine vapor, or if it is just the stress of generically bad medical equipment and that I need a shower and a better mattress. Acceptance. Seven stages of death, or aggrandizement of allergies, and I'm still in the process of sniveling to the Philadelphia police force. Can't get a lawyer? Whine to the enforcers and all the sudden you can die in Kafka's comic moral guilt. My fall in oh 2007 was actually serious. I was in my badly fitted manual Quickie I purchased for 810 on my own dime, and flipped accidentally wedging my left breast on the feline carrier. I thought I was going to die, and to make a long story short a rendezous with Geek Squad led the guard to my door but the stitch under my armpit is constant and if it is cancer it certainly isn't being aggressive.

I did actually see most of The Prisoner on PBS, and unfortunately cannot refresh my memory either through Amazon's avarice or AT&T's lassitude with their garrulous disabled customer, but the series is certainly a cult status farce with deep seated roots in the satirical tradition, and I'm interested in expanding its allegorical bent; for that reviewing is necessary. What McGoohan did well as a performer was offer the reassurance of definition and then fracture it. But let me go for now. I am trying to stay comfortable enough to work and shut off my "I cannot go on" outcry and work and remain upset that I managed nothing and had to log on because of the omnipresent automatic updates. I'm studying what I watch for a blog which really pleases my own interests, when I started what ten years ago was new fangled, all the rage, blogging, and it's already dead. Damned if I understand online ebbs and trends, but I cannot work and study every fucking video under my nose and make myself homeless to really shorten my death by COPD. Hopefully, I'll be back in a few days.