I paid Google, fool that I am, for 24 months with this domain, whether or not I should tell you that, and I'll be incredibly lucky to still be posting that long, unsure if Blogger is penalizing me for my mouth with Adsense or if I just don't know how to link the damn domain back into the ad account. I have to get a customer rep on the phone, and try to promise not to get gunned down for sedition. I am simply a clever twist on the conventional quadriplegic, not the dazzling American right wing militia; symptomatic of how much I've changed, however, the FBI's justification for the kill shot to Finicum doesn't sit well with me, not that I am prepared to gnaw that bone at the moment. I feel that no matter what I do my life is finished, and Presbyterian Homes won. I lost, because my rage toward the corporation is destroying whatever cardiovascular durability I've left, and if I give my notice they've just won faster, because I do not know if I can tap dance my way into any temporary security, and my emotional pain over this is killing me. I hope most of you are better fortified.
Prison, with a shockingly young Viggo Mortensen, is actually a viscerally frightening horror film, vis-a-vis the template body snatchers formula which mushroomed into enough cheap films in order to torture the poor. It works, for me, due to the spiritual habitation of place, and its malevolent vengeance intersecting with blood guilt, just on the edge enough to remain entertaining, and utilizing African intuitive links to the totem to give the grotesque body dysmorphia a tangible quality which makes you want to keep pace. Like District 9, this late Reagan vehicle transcends its tricks. Few in its family tree do. Viggo just has that face, like a grimaced pole cat. My right leg is numb, domestic terrorist spinster extraordinaire. I did not create this account to whine, but I've taken alot out of myself this winter, and need a solution.
No comments:
Post a Comment