But has Meshach Taylor Ever Visited Santiago?

The most fierce is someone with nothing to live for.-- Steven Segal

Page views from the Russian Federation have surpassed those from the U.S. for the first time, and if spastic desired a nihilistic worldview fed by relentless commercial footage of starving Latino and African children with clubbed feet, the dowager might suspect her besieged suicidal personality-cult driven Slavic viewers to be harbingers of ill design; if she wanted to pique their interest even further, she'd confess to having considered behaving like Timothy Hutton in The Falcon and The Snowman, in his kiss and tell with the KGB, but real life isn't a movie, even one based on a 20th century traitor buried in dusty library shelves. My only value to the FSB is my rage coated in the facade of my spastic demeanor, which looks the savant. I have no trade secrets to lure Russian agents into assisting my hollow apocalyptic blood lust, and don't give a farthing about Obama's nominal Christian lip service concealing his so called Muslim sympathies, or the persistent conviction of his birther detractors-- though it is interesting, none the less, to consider what the authorities would do with a quadriplegic whose undercurrent of hate is so deep and so virulent and so utterly futile in these times of proto-Fascist resurgent stirrings, hardly clever enough to be dispassionately ruthless in her once intense thirst to live so fully as was never to be. I've never been in love you know, not really, despite never having not gotten over a one John P Tassoni. I fell for him as an underclassman, yes, but who the fuck was I kidding? Even when I put my foot in my mouth with my developmentally delayed emotions when we were lying apart from each other on the bunks, and told him I liked him, I knew. No happiness in a lover for me. Ever. That has pretty much been the case, lesbian panic considerations aside. I fucked husbands who looked like my father and trapped myself. I let an asshole like Frank-the-ex manipulate me and almost married a tragically sick pig of a motherfucker. If this is why formulas are droll yet comforting in their schemes, well, to be blunt and lacking for polish, Criminal Minds is a joke, sometimes bordering on the fantastical, and yet, when you allow for vulnerability, even American serial conventions occasionally penetrate.

One of the later episodes, after Paget, but during Tripplehorn's fill in, the guild writers want to humanize the methodology and give Joe Mantegna a back story, so David Rossi meets his old Vietnam Sergeant Scott, whose disparity against Rossi is supposed to teach the audience a studious moral lesson not to fall for the malevolent attractions of Social Darwinism, the primordial killer here being a fireman, everyone's hero, who thinks he's eliminating vermin, but not to be too incendiary to draw NAACP protests, the writers have him stab an angelic street singer first, then a sketch artist, before the minorities were then victimized, careful to make the pathology equal opportunity, and yet, this one episode had a powerful resonating quality, like Henry James turning his fabled screw inwards, until it wrenches our tears, the plot emanating the downfalls of people like me, who should have been the poster child of Pennsylvania's vocational success, always running from world weary horror of her own making, but maybe it wasn't. Maybe liberalism simply made me believe I had parity with ambulatory white privilege. I don't know if anything can still enable my happiness, but leaving the threat section 202 housing poses to my dignity would be the beginning, loosening the grip of a corrosive scourge.

Chile is such a strangely drawn country, attributable to the Spaniard coping mechanism. Life is a dream as much as it is the repression of right wing dictatorships. Simplicity itself.