Free Ride

I do not have much for you this morning, other than a sense of being disgruntled, as I usually am, after parring viral communities down to size. I feel a certain weariness with blinding myself to the fact that I allow myself to be exploited, wobbling down the damn stepladder as opposed to holding my own. Ta-Nehisi, whose tag I now have to repair, was frank enough to tell readers the truth during the crescendo over Cosby: we don't make a great deal of money even under the brand name. This includes The New Republic prior to Chris Hughes, and okay, I struggled with an unsuitable community once again, get over it-- but LinkedIn hasn't been a five star venue either, exactly-- although I am taking another look. These platforms are indicating new ways hapless flat foots gain exposure, and I grasp the LinkedIn voice preference just enough, that with care, I can fake its light arcania sentiments, on some relevant issue I don't mind giving away.

I am tired and in pain and comfortably starving so as not to aggravate aged patriarch with mummified third wife; and it could be worse. I've written strong pitches, weak pitches, fucked pitches with typographical errors and still, I pitch, and Yabberz users did, now and again, give me a new market. If I had stayed, I would have threatened to kill the entire body of California liberals, as a class unique unto themselves. 

There is something superficially inimical about those domicile to the golden state, not that I feel particularly generous to modal libertarians either. We need to learn how to bond in mutual support now and again, and if I roll out of public housing, I need someone to catch me, not just suck me dry as a consumer.  Exposing Melissa's limits was exactly that. I can write about the public housing system as a corrupt and quiet holocaust forever, but who, exactly, would intervene? Catholicism even agrees with Presby's lies treating the broken with dignity. It is for our own good, or it isn't that you don't care, but you're sinking in an underwater mortgage too. I hear you, but section 811 and 202 are Satan's sadistic pleasures brought to life, the corrosion of defeat caught between our teeth without a decent polish and floss. It needs to end, even for nonagenarian bones. Regardless of who we fucking speak to, what we fucking say, a public housing tenant is so much chattel, a classification, automatically relegated, and I will show up in New Wales soon to find Toomey's campaign, and I intend to raise the damn dead when I do, if I have to, to break HUDs power.