"Yeah I like Senator Toomey!" -- Nicholas Marinelli, enthusiastic
Even for the decade in which it was written, The Marseille Contract (74) is little more than a composite pastiche that justifies a decorum to its violence with an almost Victorian reasoning: Anthony Quinn gets in the car with the two Parisian hitmen because he was asked, why else? And yet I chose this flick to dull the monotony of a Memorial holiday weekend with no plans, over a modern, mature, virtuoso performance film like The Aviator. The only thing DiCaprio and Quinn share in common is diffident gestures towards being Everyman to every director's demand. Caine doesn't quite have the range to do this, and yet this film, which we've all seen run half a dozen times over the years, is the only Michael Caine role I actually enjoy, racing automobile toys along Cannes as a stylized foreplay, prefiguring Clooney in The American, as a perfectionist, although this assassin flicker is also more deeply flawed than it has to be.
I can concede total victories to liberals every so often: AO Scott does his job, and there is something simply off about Clooney here, miscast. Not so Caine in Marseilles. Even Quinn rises to the occasion with practiced cynicism. Should we spill so much blood over underworld kingpins? Not a chance, and yet the film should offer you cues about my argument as to when, and where, violence is acceptable to achieve certain aims, as in my rage with the concept of warehousing wheelchair users in elderly poverty housing as something of an upgrade on a centralized facility: not really, and only in a decorative sense.
Another case in point, which some may read as retributive: I am being subjected to a hostile environment anew here at Riverside. Erik's personal care attendant, Chris, has been behaving like the real belligerent, as opposed to Harambe. The incidences may give me the opportunity to put the squeeze on my old freak ally, because I'm crafty, whether or not I truly *fear* a ghetto boy's denigration. Let's make Google wince: Chris is worthless to me. If my local right wing alliance beats some contusions into his ignorance for me, I've taught the ape who actually needs manners a lesson.
Saturday, May 28, 2016
Turkish Coffee Deficit, B -
As the fame of the coffee plant spread to other lands, its centuries long voyage was about to begin [sic].
The resentment of America can be understood in light of the success of Three's Company, even if everyone understood the irony of Suzanne Somers' cluelessness, nascent innocence, which hearkens back to James's success with the novella Daisy Miller, but Somers' only claim to recognition illustrates the exhaustion of capital. The comedienne has lost her telegenic appeal and cuts a rather sad figure. She looks like an Irish alcoholic and should consider transforming herself into a silent partner. If you look closely at Ritter in Bad Santa one feels the same queasiness around the sickbed. We may not be able to internally cue ourselves onto silent heart valve death waiting for a fatal tear, but he looks and sounds seriously ill against the unwitting Thorton, not that my comparison is exactly complimentary: Ritter had some talent beyond farce and timing for studio audiences. Somers has a decollete. She markets what she has, but still, do we ever ask why we don't close the door at some point? Time's up? Sunset Boulevard is mythic on this particular point-- not currency, everyone dims, but the ability to adapt. I imagine sooner as opposed to later our physical deaths will be virally milked into a virtual immortally which raises its own ethics.
I was correct to assume Judith Light honed her line readings on Soap Opera, wrong as to which one. Not Bobbi on General Hospital, but another character on CBS, an illustration of queer limits. She is forceful on SVU, but cannot follow through her lead in A Strange Affair. Jay Thomas, like my ex, was a cruel bastard, minus the uncouth porcine stupidity, which speaks to the convenience of intelligence, and a merciful, dignified end. My would be brother in law may not have known what to do after Frank nearly died from three strokes in succession, but up close, its aftermath was a grotesque lingering for which video rarely has the courage.
The resentment of America can be understood in light of the success of Three's Company, even if everyone understood the irony of Suzanne Somers' cluelessness, nascent innocence, which hearkens back to James's success with the novella Daisy Miller, but Somers' only claim to recognition illustrates the exhaustion of capital. The comedienne has lost her telegenic appeal and cuts a rather sad figure. She looks like an Irish alcoholic and should consider transforming herself into a silent partner. If you look closely at Ritter in Bad Santa one feels the same queasiness around the sickbed. We may not be able to internally cue ourselves onto silent heart valve death waiting for a fatal tear, but he looks and sounds seriously ill against the unwitting Thorton, not that my comparison is exactly complimentary: Ritter had some talent beyond farce and timing for studio audiences. Somers has a decollete. She markets what she has, but still, do we ever ask why we don't close the door at some point? Time's up? Sunset Boulevard is mythic on this particular point-- not currency, everyone dims, but the ability to adapt. I imagine sooner as opposed to later our physical deaths will be virally milked into a virtual immortally which raises its own ethics.
I was correct to assume Judith Light honed her line readings on Soap Opera, wrong as to which one. Not Bobbi on General Hospital, but another character on CBS, an illustration of queer limits. She is forceful on SVU, but cannot follow through her lead in A Strange Affair. Jay Thomas, like my ex, was a cruel bastard, minus the uncouth porcine stupidity, which speaks to the convenience of intelligence, and a merciful, dignified end. My would be brother in law may not have known what to do after Frank nearly died from three strokes in succession, but up close, its aftermath was a grotesque lingering for which video rarely has the courage.
Tuesday, May 24, 2016
Females Nag Too Much
In the time honored vexation of crossing wires on social media, I attempted to speak softly to a mulatto whom I don't like, and he is now following my feed. I do not feel comfortable blocking a half wit who says he served as a Marine, but this is now the burden of conscience I get for making an attempt to tell him not to get too involved in online conversation, and conclude from this we've already drastically altered ourselves for the worse. I know what the man wants. To help me heal, help me soften my stance, but his oozing great guy flatulence holds absolutely no interest, just as my overwrought nerves about censorship go a bridge too far. Google is a company. Facebook is a company, and the litany of digital incorporation is not beholden to the First amendment, just as the right to incite is problematical, even if it is qualified by virtual lifelong punishment. Put it in a book instead of a blog, but even there, texts succeed or fail based on formula, market audience, the like.
I do not quite consider myself on par with the grotesque indulgence of Ducasse, but more importantly, I should not have to care as a creative writer, and Google's engineers and employees, not wanting to be arbiters of the First Amendment, should not have to be, even if they aren't sure about the stance of my anarchy. True pathology may be another matter. Have I hit that tenor on occasion? In my published work, every so often, yes. Editors have taken chances on me, but the instant post, this has done bad things to all of us. Obscene photos traded like gawker baseball cards-- and I don't even do that, though I caught my thigh in the phone frame snapping Vinnie and all the sudden had a graphic image designation, and I should have kept that shot, as Vinnie went off mewing in pain and terror in a plastic containment box at the mercy of a city employee named Elena who hated me for dragging her out here at five in the morning. I have to live with that too, and loved the child.
Publishing to Amazon kindle because I desperately need revenue is neither here nor there, ethically, except for the fact I'm using a retailer as a vanity publisher, which waffles me a little, as rejections matter, and being a disadvantaged minority beholden to an overpriced digital global distributor sets my teeth on edge. No one bothers with DEA, so why would vanity productions alter that in any significant fashion, though one grants the format differs? I have decided to try, dip a toe in, and see, but it is not the category of writer I am, and don't want to jip an audience. They deserve my best.
I do not quite consider myself on par with the grotesque indulgence of Ducasse, but more importantly, I should not have to care as a creative writer, and Google's engineers and employees, not wanting to be arbiters of the First Amendment, should not have to be, even if they aren't sure about the stance of my anarchy. True pathology may be another matter. Have I hit that tenor on occasion? In my published work, every so often, yes. Editors have taken chances on me, but the instant post, this has done bad things to all of us. Obscene photos traded like gawker baseball cards-- and I don't even do that, though I caught my thigh in the phone frame snapping Vinnie and all the sudden had a graphic image designation, and I should have kept that shot, as Vinnie went off mewing in pain and terror in a plastic containment box at the mercy of a city employee named Elena who hated me for dragging her out here at five in the morning. I have to live with that too, and loved the child.
Publishing to Amazon kindle because I desperately need revenue is neither here nor there, ethically, except for the fact I'm using a retailer as a vanity publisher, which waffles me a little, as rejections matter, and being a disadvantaged minority beholden to an overpriced digital global distributor sets my teeth on edge. No one bothers with DEA, so why would vanity productions alter that in any significant fashion, though one grants the format differs? I have decided to try, dip a toe in, and see, but it is not the category of writer I am, and don't want to jip an audience. They deserve my best.
Monday, May 23, 2016
Genocide in a Cheshire Cat
Maybe I'd be lucky and not die at all. Maybe I'd be a cripple all my life ... maybe I'd be paralyzed and have to sit in a wheelchair. The Tropic of Cancer, almost in the middle
Like I need another of these.
In the secret space of my callous self, I had always wanted to be free of pet rearing so I could give my notice and die a hard tragic death on the asphalt, and now I'm nearly there, but for kimmy, whom I'm giving a hard time, because my guilt has the corrosive power of destruction. I have a soft spot for all cats, but I loved my boys, and could not give any of them a good death, though Oliver got the best, and I had time to grieve with him. Educated liberals, when not taking human pet attachments seriously, lampoon them, and I fully comprehend the impetus, yet realize, as most feline lovers do, conspiratorially, that cats are superior to humans, and I miss my boys, putting all my energies into a fantasy which is cerebral, almost finished, and has me torn. Upload it to Amazon as a single, or not? I have not made up my mind, envious of Henning Mankell's ability to put his balls on a string. There are female authors who can do the same, but not like men.
Talisman is almost 20 years old, and Manning isn't afraid to kick himself in the ass, have a little fun, and have a relevant message about how our lack of ethics ripples outward; he makes it look easy, within a relatively simple meta-fictional framework, and it isn't. I blocked this shit without a word, increasingly disaffected.
Like I need another of these.
In the secret space of my callous self, I had always wanted to be free of pet rearing so I could give my notice and die a hard tragic death on the asphalt, and now I'm nearly there, but for kimmy, whom I'm giving a hard time, because my guilt has the corrosive power of destruction. I have a soft spot for all cats, but I loved my boys, and could not give any of them a good death, though Oliver got the best, and I had time to grieve with him. Educated liberals, when not taking human pet attachments seriously, lampoon them, and I fully comprehend the impetus, yet realize, as most feline lovers do, conspiratorially, that cats are superior to humans, and I miss my boys, putting all my energies into a fantasy which is cerebral, almost finished, and has me torn. Upload it to Amazon as a single, or not? I have not made up my mind, envious of Henning Mankell's ability to put his balls on a string. There are female authors who can do the same, but not like men.
Talisman is almost 20 years old, and Manning isn't afraid to kick himself in the ass, have a little fun, and have a relevant message about how our lack of ethics ripples outward; he makes it look easy, within a relatively simple meta-fictional framework, and it isn't. I blocked this shit without a word, increasingly disaffected.
It Clicks
In Cheshire I mention that Mankell's Talisman has a brazen devil may care quality, but by episode 7, one's eyes start to glaze over, and the ending was dismal, anti-climatic. The actor who took the lead as the discredited cop, however, appears in the earlier Hamilton series, which contributes to subversive irony if fans follow European actors with the same regularity as those who break ranks in Burbank.
And, if I have been writing as if I did not know Henning was an obituary over the course of this year, the dowager displays a rare dose of humility and apologizes. As rendered through Calamur, the fanciful obit compiler, I disagree with both the contributor and Henning's voice within the piece. Having read a couple of the Wallander novels, they do not seem to reflect ordinary mundane affairs, not in terms of Mankell's plots, Mankell's withholding, though one concedes Wallander is the normal middle class white male being asked to clean up modern psychoses. Nor is racism a crime. The actual offense is egalitarianism which muzzles people like dogs, though it is also true a disproportionate number of writers die from lung cancer, alcoholism, or even too much caffeine. Depends on who we are, how far we push.
And, if I have been writing as if I did not know Henning was an obituary over the course of this year, the dowager displays a rare dose of humility and apologizes. As rendered through Calamur, the fanciful obit compiler, I disagree with both the contributor and Henning's voice within the piece. Having read a couple of the Wallander novels, they do not seem to reflect ordinary mundane affairs, not in terms of Mankell's plots, Mankell's withholding, though one concedes Wallander is the normal middle class white male being asked to clean up modern psychoses. Nor is racism a crime. The actual offense is egalitarianism which muzzles people like dogs, though it is also true a disproportionate number of writers die from lung cancer, alcoholism, or even too much caffeine. Depends on who we are, how far we push.
Tuesday, May 10, 2016
Twinkle Toes with Bulgakov
"Do you believe no human is worth saving?"-- Jeremy Irons
Foreign analysts can lead one to blossom provocative ideas of which you can almost convince yourself to attempt, like cashing on the new age of polemical half truths by our adversaries. I was going to contact the fabled genesis heir to the KGB and place myself at their disposal to troll a web of lies in exchange for a transfer out of the 202 housing system, and still might do it, since finding work at home is difficult, but then reassessed, why would Russian Federation handlers treat me any better than Philadelphia's minority power class, tethering themselves to state rock candy? What could I convey to the FSB that wouldn't lead them to turn my missives over to the FBI, and what would earning myself a federal file achieve, in the attempt to deploy Slavic cronyism to give myself one last boost? The only thing I have that RT media would value is a verifiable life of white indifference in institutional depositories conjoined to black violence and mental health dysfunction which has broken me down, on top of my chronic incontinence. One also assumes being a petrol state is not the highlight of the season, as a 44 dollar barrel of oil is still low, despite the Canadian crisis. Sometimes I tend to forget I'm a writer first, and that this account hasn't down anything for me except to enrage decency, and, conversely, lead to trivialization, much like Niven's caviler reversion to form at Seberg's instigation in Bonjour Tristesse.
Sagan's work is a mid century take on social manner, catty ploys, people not knowing what to do with themselves, youthful angst breaking the yolk of restraint to carry the first real wounds of growing up.
I've always been an online junkie, but these days, it is quantitatively different. We fear moral majorities of a different sort, and if Google wants my scar tissue out of the way, if my intense stride is unacceptable, aren't they doing the right thing, if all the years of abuse and failing against poverty in part due to corruption, hasn't taught me acceptance, but transformed me into an equally failing warrior? I'm so over extended that the private space every writer needs, whether pure reporter or not, is creched into a treble. This isn't particularly beneficial to twilight, in whatever way we sip the cup of cessation. A developmental mastermind is a contradiction in terms, isn't it?
Foreign analysts can lead one to blossom provocative ideas of which you can almost convince yourself to attempt, like cashing on the new age of polemical half truths by our adversaries. I was going to contact the fabled genesis heir to the KGB and place myself at their disposal to troll a web of lies in exchange for a transfer out of the 202 housing system, and still might do it, since finding work at home is difficult, but then reassessed, why would Russian Federation handlers treat me any better than Philadelphia's minority power class, tethering themselves to state rock candy? What could I convey to the FSB that wouldn't lead them to turn my missives over to the FBI, and what would earning myself a federal file achieve, in the attempt to deploy Slavic cronyism to give myself one last boost? The only thing I have that RT media would value is a verifiable life of white indifference in institutional depositories conjoined to black violence and mental health dysfunction which has broken me down, on top of my chronic incontinence. One also assumes being a petrol state is not the highlight of the season, as a 44 dollar barrel of oil is still low, despite the Canadian crisis. Sometimes I tend to forget I'm a writer first, and that this account hasn't down anything for me except to enrage decency, and, conversely, lead to trivialization, much like Niven's caviler reversion to form at Seberg's instigation in Bonjour Tristesse.
Sagan's work is a mid century take on social manner, catty ploys, people not knowing what to do with themselves, youthful angst breaking the yolk of restraint to carry the first real wounds of growing up.
I've always been an online junkie, but these days, it is quantitatively different. We fear moral majorities of a different sort, and if Google wants my scar tissue out of the way, if my intense stride is unacceptable, aren't they doing the right thing, if all the years of abuse and failing against poverty in part due to corruption, hasn't taught me acceptance, but transformed me into an equally failing warrior? I'm so over extended that the private space every writer needs, whether pure reporter or not, is creched into a treble. This isn't particularly beneficial to twilight, in whatever way we sip the cup of cessation. A developmental mastermind is a contradiction in terms, isn't it?
Saturday, May 7, 2016
Inability to Come to Terms
I wasted a lot of time this afternoon discovering what I already knew, that community portals like Yabberz are counterproductive, that regardless of what I do, individuals such as I get sucked into contests, and I abandoned Mike Horton's nursery of festivities three times in the course of my online life, and should no doubt give up blogging, given the emotional erosion that comes with age. Perhaps I am a little too frenetic to push the envelope a little more right now, and should go clean my coffee pot, which I meant to do all day and instead wanted to log on to research Trump's plausibility with his audit of the Federal Reserve, and instead, went to that fucking nuisance of a non-partisan venue. Jesus Fucking Christ. Why, when I know better?
I was flagged by some bitch for going into detail about the black racism I've lived, and she no doubt had a victory orgasm, and that ends my membership in such fractious folly, proving there are things we cannot change about ourselves. Pain only tends to breed more unkindness, and no one likes self-pity, or uncouth veracity. I have insinuated things about Philadelphia Adapt and my former colleagues, of course; I'm not their only victim, nor Presby's, even though I've stated in no uncertain terms what I'd like to do to Riverside, so maybe Blogger is afraid someone will take ideas into their head. I don't know, but in that case, let me be arrested and charged. More than the people, I want independent living centers overhauled. For what they are, they hurt too many. No one cares, and sometimes that is why people act. I'm never going to clear my debt, even if I find a happier environ and some small part time activity, and contrary to what liberals may feel, I want to honor the obligations of my loan, but it is not going to happen, as my marginalization is now the product which funded my own past salaries, and I put my heart and my soul on a sleeve, and Blogger has to inject itself in very careful doublespeak.
Don't get me wrong, Google is mighty and I'm an ant outracing the killing fields, but I want my voice to remain as a testament to the fact that intelligence, matriculation, spare us nothing when the blows keep coming, like Trudy Richardson's repeated humiliations. I would truly rather eviction, even though some of you cannot see that logic.
I was flagged by some bitch for going into detail about the black racism I've lived, and she no doubt had a victory orgasm, and that ends my membership in such fractious folly, proving there are things we cannot change about ourselves. Pain only tends to breed more unkindness, and no one likes self-pity, or uncouth veracity. I have insinuated things about Philadelphia Adapt and my former colleagues, of course; I'm not their only victim, nor Presby's, even though I've stated in no uncertain terms what I'd like to do to Riverside, so maybe Blogger is afraid someone will take ideas into their head. I don't know, but in that case, let me be arrested and charged. More than the people, I want independent living centers overhauled. For what they are, they hurt too many. No one cares, and sometimes that is why people act. I'm never going to clear my debt, even if I find a happier environ and some small part time activity, and contrary to what liberals may feel, I want to honor the obligations of my loan, but it is not going to happen, as my marginalization is now the product which funded my own past salaries, and I put my heart and my soul on a sleeve, and Blogger has to inject itself in very careful doublespeak.
Don't get me wrong, Google is mighty and I'm an ant outracing the killing fields, but I want my voice to remain as a testament to the fact that intelligence, matriculation, spare us nothing when the blows keep coming, like Trudy Richardson's repeated humiliations. I would truly rather eviction, even though some of you cannot see that logic.
Wednesday, May 4, 2016
Fear in the Digital Age
I wanted to discuss Google's power, without overreacting, because I remain uncertain why they are moving my domain from WHOIS. I am intelligent, but don't quite grasp why Blogger's upgrade means I'm being exported; it is either procedural, or some sort of majority flagging is going on. I don't understand the email and never succeeded in getting anything made clear in their forums, and have a week to try to get a live representative to explain things to me. Perhaps it just isn't worth the head winds. Maybe getting familiar on Yabberz had something to do with it, but I cannot know that, even if I ask. It wouldn't achieve anything, but the time and energy I've spent putting my soul into this account is all I have, whether it appalls viewers or ignites pity, or occasional appreciation, this is it, and forcing me to make it a personal account no one sees except by request is pointless, regardless of who has been embarrassed.
(Apparently nothing untoward happened, but I still don't get it, as my twitter account is still secured on a WHOIS platform.) It also isn't fair that Google may be earning money on my posts but cannot make re-mometization simpler for me as a disadvantaged woman over 50, even if you might say I have other platform choices.)
I am going to die soon. My body can't take the stress, regardless of corporate unease, and leaving this human stain is necessary, even if I understand the monopolistic gravitation toward moderation which my mettle won't obey, since mortality overtaking us creates urgency. I've become blunter, without going so far as to try to draw Trump's supporters to my advantage. If I cannot get justice for the cruelty of my life, I intend to go down fighting. One year, Marie said, "you belong in the street!" Because I don't let up. 23 year old university students shouldn't be trapped in section 202 housing for life simply due to the fact that they are power chair users who never guite solved the commute issue. I hate Presbyterian Homes, and by extension, the whole 202 system. When Denny O'Brien advocates the virtue of yoga classes, how the holy fuck am I supposed to enter into that? To make a grievance threadbare, Liberty Resources and Linda Dezenski were my segregated family, as was the dying gargoyle on the eighth floor.
My mother, ten years ago, maybe more, asked why I couldn't just live my life. There is nothing left of it to live.
(Apparently nothing untoward happened, but I still don't get it, as my twitter account is still secured on a WHOIS platform.) It also isn't fair that Google may be earning money on my posts but cannot make re-mometization simpler for me as a disadvantaged woman over 50, even if you might say I have other platform choices.)
I am going to die soon. My body can't take the stress, regardless of corporate unease, and leaving this human stain is necessary, even if I understand the monopolistic gravitation toward moderation which my mettle won't obey, since mortality overtaking us creates urgency. I've become blunter, without going so far as to try to draw Trump's supporters to my advantage. If I cannot get justice for the cruelty of my life, I intend to go down fighting. One year, Marie said, "you belong in the street!" Because I don't let up. 23 year old university students shouldn't be trapped in section 202 housing for life simply due to the fact that they are power chair users who never guite solved the commute issue. I hate Presbyterian Homes, and by extension, the whole 202 system. When Denny O'Brien advocates the virtue of yoga classes, how the holy fuck am I supposed to enter into that? To make a grievance threadbare, Liberty Resources and Linda Dezenski were my segregated family, as was the dying gargoyle on the eighth floor.
My mother, ten years ago, maybe more, asked why I couldn't just live my life. There is nothing left of it to live.
Michael's Pipes
Nothing so infuriates me as a magnate and politician estimated to be worth nearly 45 billion USD grandstanding about commitment to equality as the best pathway to success. Very few people have ever commented on my account, perhaps due to bafflement, but excluding the fact that I maintain the same online access Mayor Bloomberg has, how in God's name am I his equal as an American?
My own relatives want me to go to some quasi-assisted living facility, Blogger wants me to convert to something or other because I'm upsetting the middle class; to volunteer for Pat Toomey I have to groom and haul my carcass to New Wales, which is like putting Stephen Hawking on Star Trek. How am I equal to the ambulatory world? Cough it up people, come on:
My own relatives want me to go to some quasi-assisted living facility, Blogger wants me to convert to something or other because I'm upsetting the middle class; to volunteer for Pat Toomey I have to groom and haul my carcass to New Wales, which is like putting Stephen Hawking on Star Trek. How am I equal to the ambulatory world? Cough it up people, come on:
A commitment to equality is essential to success. Great to launch @Bloomberg's Gender-Equality Index today. pic.twitter.com/ySTqMwAiJE— Mike Bloomberg (@MikeBloomberg) May 4, 2016
Tuesday, May 3, 2016
Acquisition Pressure Points
How did we get here? If you’re a progressive, you start by expressing solidarity with a supposed underdog. [sic]
Google is making changes. Google is upgrading and expects me to understand these things, while my worries flue out of my chest like razor thin party streamers, fully cognizant I'll be gone soon, that Google is transitioning slowly into a value brand, paranoia like a vise on my stressed vascular system, Google wins, and my disenfranchisement is like Connelly's self-serving demise at the hands of demonic demands for nurture in American remakes. I grant that I intermingle personal voice, personal rage, yes, with an agenda many viewers may find inscrutable, uncomfortable, but the fact that I'm near the end of my viability should merit charitable latitude, even if my life long anger at being tortured for the sake of everyone else has merged into Trump's bully pulpit.
Why not telephone Google and sort it out in flushed retention? I have tried once or twice, and need to make an effort with the time differential, and already know, since all platforms are the same when it comes to incendiary fire, I am not going to be allowed more creative freedom elsewhere to stay public with an adult content banner. The Russians and the Chinese probably already point out that the west practices corporate censorship in just such a fashion, through restrictive guidelines, if that is indeed what the search giant is up to. I'm not certain, but wanted to qualify, I still like ambulatory men, of certain classes and types, and wish I had ambulatory men, of certain classes and types, who could see me as more than a vaginal conquest of exemplary penetration. To the extent that female paraplegics can still be fully desirable, I am not one of them, born like an imp, dying like a hag, but the dogs see me as a lay, and it has never been otherwise, at least not with any man I wanted, including the three blacks I might have tried, ancient history, though two were paraplegics. Maybe that I tweet my links is causing the trouble, but I am not engaging in hardcore pornography, and some of you must realize this, that it is a thematic mission statement, yet what can I do? Alphabet may signify Google has future growth issues, but I'm a poisoned cockroach, legs in a death run upturned in the air.
Google is making changes. Google is upgrading and expects me to understand these things, while my worries flue out of my chest like razor thin party streamers, fully cognizant I'll be gone soon, that Google is transitioning slowly into a value brand, paranoia like a vise on my stressed vascular system, Google wins, and my disenfranchisement is like Connelly's self-serving demise at the hands of demonic demands for nurture in American remakes. I grant that I intermingle personal voice, personal rage, yes, with an agenda many viewers may find inscrutable, uncomfortable, but the fact that I'm near the end of my viability should merit charitable latitude, even if my life long anger at being tortured for the sake of everyone else has merged into Trump's bully pulpit.
Why not telephone Google and sort it out in flushed retention? I have tried once or twice, and need to make an effort with the time differential, and already know, since all platforms are the same when it comes to incendiary fire, I am not going to be allowed more creative freedom elsewhere to stay public with an adult content banner. The Russians and the Chinese probably already point out that the west practices corporate censorship in just such a fashion, through restrictive guidelines, if that is indeed what the search giant is up to. I'm not certain, but wanted to qualify, I still like ambulatory men, of certain classes and types, and wish I had ambulatory men, of certain classes and types, who could see me as more than a vaginal conquest of exemplary penetration. To the extent that female paraplegics can still be fully desirable, I am not one of them, born like an imp, dying like a hag, but the dogs see me as a lay, and it has never been otherwise, at least not with any man I wanted, including the three blacks I might have tried, ancient history, though two were paraplegics. Maybe that I tweet my links is causing the trouble, but I am not engaging in hardcore pornography, and some of you must realize this, that it is a thematic mission statement, yet what can I do? Alphabet may signify Google has future growth issues, but I'm a poisoned cockroach, legs in a death run upturned in the air.
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