Cueball

There are intangible attributes which language struggles to break, and why Morris Chestnut is cast as the gatekeeper in every American speculative science fiction series or films is one of them, the black actor who oozes sensitivity, with charming Eurasian features, which make his lips thinner, less intimidating. Rosewood, however, is simply a demographic Quincy update which leaves me wading behind on Jack Klugman's adam apple, as if we should congratulate ourselves that Liberty City vomited long and hard, and voila, out comes a pathologist, a pretty lesbian sister and more convincing white partner. Spastic dowager is the foreign invader, viewing a series which is actually speculative, waiting for a tendril to pop off the set of V to snap the neck of the doomed caught between two worlds.

Bruce Hunt cheats in The Cave with cliches that are obvious, relying mostly on the spectacular location and extreme sport tenacity as opposed to a viable story. Chestnut is the Afro diversity stand in. Perhaps it's enough for glib satisfaction to carry his show in the present tense.

Just after six, fed, charging, I am supposed to do intake this afternoon and I can't bring myself to go through with it. I can't do it and I'm afraid, namely that I'll critically injure any future attendant out of fear for my life. I really cannot do this, and for now, passed the hat, what I went through in 97 no different than 2015; if I investigate and create an upheaval in the administration in Waiver services, what changes in the essentials? Caught between inextricable realities. I hate unskilled black labor, and should put an end to this project. Google would be happy, and I could go back in city, and find a crew, teach Philadelphia ADAPT a lesson, resume my training in archery.

I have murdered my former supervisor many times, ripping out her throat in fantastical payback, snapping her vertebra by rotating her chin 180 degrees, livid and tired, the list has grown to include others. Yes, channel it into a Kindle 5 cent thriller, with credible developmental maniac, basically violent at her core, making Trudy Richardson's tactics to intimidate me totally reasonable, but she only increased my hatred, and the beat goes on. I have to get back to real work, pitch more, and if I get a hit, stop posting. I downloaded the KDP tool, neither ready nor entirely sanguine about it. Maybe I'll thread some of Disability In Entertainment Arts into a smaller collection of essays while I'm threatened with service disruption.

Yes, imagination is one thing, and murder is actually taxing. Victims aren't easy to create. Strangulation takes strength. I used to be good with bows and arrows, like James Ellroy and his improbable LA corruption.