Do not think that because I hate my landlord that I'm a liberal. Presby's power comes as a direct result of congressional classification, and while I am sure this Councilman-At-Large, the go to gentleman for special needs, is a sweetheart, I remember this bastard, his wife, rumors of the black mafia and the corruption swirling around city government under John Street, whom I met, and the look in the mayor's eye said "be nice to the retard," which I did not countermand. I had a craving for a burger and threw on a threadbare skirt and one of Monica Carr's blouses absent the reserve of a brassiere, and when I saw Street in the parking lot, I posed an incredulous interrogative, "Is that the Mayor?" then rushed home seized with fervor to crucify the bastard with the voice of New Republic finesse, and my confidence cratered, unfortunately.
Not that I had not achieved my goal at fusion before, with my appearance in the Inquirer's metro section, but a TNR byline would have sustained it, and now achieving that is problematic. Marty Peretz, whatever his flaws, was acute, sharp, penetrating in the selection of his contributors, which at times aroused my zeal. This is not TNR under Hughes as a privileged candy man.
What am I, in the political sense of the term? An annihilator with libertarian sympathies, close to making myself expendable because women in case management have absolutely no fucking idea what they're doing, and Presby's owners aren't about the good works of their doctrine. Persecuting my non-compliance is a business model to them. Bad things happen to good people? Let it go? How many bad things? If my sister lost one of her children, I doubt she'd continue with the pragmatic conduit role of reigning me in. My mother is dead because she miscarried, birthed two cripples, one who should have been euthanized, and lost a son. My stepmother is her friend from nursing school my father married to survive, and she is an invalid on her last legs. If I was Louise I would not hesitate to bake arsenic in almond cookies and consume them. She hates my sister, Benjamin and I, which is probably transference. My father is a misogynist and doesn't love her.
I have serious doubts about whether or not I would have been better off if the 1963 neo-natal unit had shut off my oxygen. I am not exactly sure by what magic I had prevailed, but what is in store for me? Bed ridden dependence on the descendants of Jim Crow or Hispanic drug mules, and I'll be damned if I'm going through that, mark my words.
It might be too much icing to assert Dr. Carson has my admiration, but I do respect his honesty despite my racism, and it may be a tempered racism, as I do not want to engage in slaughter due to ethnicity. My virulence comes from forced diversity, my intolerance based on the fact that I cannot define my own boundaries because the system says I cannot discriminate. The question remains, however, if a mixed race constitutional scholar disillusioned our expectations, why we expect any better from a conservative neurosurgeon. I'm thinking about doing a piece on Carson.
Discrimination will always be part and parcel of the human dynamic, hence, Imperial Companions comes a bit late to my table. I ain't working for you, but I should never have had to be defeated by inner city violence and the polemic of HUD's lies when it comes to housing low income tenants. It might be hard for me to die like a militant, but that is my preference, if it comes to that.
I bought more cashews. They make me happy, but just a handful now and then.
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