Inveterate Malice

If I was as ruthless as Peter Thiel, I'd give blogger up. I cannot restart my adsense account because I don't know how to reopen it and don't know either how to utilize Google Forums to get where I need to be, don't see many bloggers who are self funding in these particular domains, I wield my tongue like a volcanic lash, and defied terms of service guidelines to be illegal, and did not tone it down because of a law firm threat, but because I probably am not going to see sunrise at 60. Yet I'm here every day, starving, trying to keep father's resources at bay, but the way to do that is to cease talking to the Aunt. She forces the drifting family patriarch who made me his executor to assist me; it isn't right. Padre has a right to some peace. I found my way back to Beacon through the Levy's Writer's Block none of us use, going to try Beacon again, but I am far too tired to post, even as I realize, to my amazement, that I am giving the building manager the solution she seeks. Fear for my survival is not enough to keep me here in Riverside Presbyterian. There is no respect for the authority of Trudy Richardson, and I treat her in inveterate fashion, living here with so many episodic crises, I need to at least make the attempt to leave, even if social media isn't fully attuned to my subtext.

It may surprise you to learn I am civil to a few of the younger minorities, like Amneshia, a collegiate age guard. She said to me "I would do it (give your notice)," as I've been unhappy a very long time; from what she knows of my story, even she feels corporate should give me the damn transfer. My readers who have read enough to know the gist could telephone Spring Mills and say give the poor spastic what she needs. What is a telephone call?

610-834-1001

I go over Richardson's head now, taunting the dezins of the domestic in Montgomery County, my rancor very much equal opportunity. I hissed into a Vice-President's voicemail fearlessly, threatening institutional duress. For one of such slender means I really buy into my role as the mafia don with cojones on the cunt. I just wrote cunt and made myself an imagined hermaphrodite, which is why Google corporate washes its hands, in part.

I am really angry at Petter Thiel, for the thing itself, but also have much thinking to do. Have a good morning. I have to pack in a bit early.