The issue at stake for humanity is broader than the climate change that is beginning to gain needed attention. -- Carl Folke, Respecting Planetary Boundaries, Chapter 2
Meet the devil incarnate. It blows the dowager's mind that David Ward survives, thrives yet, taught my niece, and can be telephoned, as in Yo, you philandering prick, still want that paper on atheism and ontology I blew off, disappointing your respect in my willingness to wrestle a thesis to its grave? My animosity toward Dr. Ward was an early flag I should have heeded better, sooner, but for my frustrated hormones driving the engine. It is not quite accurate to stipulate that I hated him during my naive quest toward my own genius, whatever that is, still sweeping up the dried dung of my aggravating deceased little black cat, a cat whom I'm grieving as hard if not harder than his beautiful fluff of a teddy brother. So much pain over a pet. But David Ward exemplifies everything I hate about progressive liberal sensibilities. If you are wondering why Jerry McGuire, (who I actually called by his first name) and Michael Clark, David's former colleagues, are spared the wrath of my overbite, that is a more complex question. The hippie aroused me, and Michael, who is presumably mostly skeletal at this stage of the second decade of his death, is the husband I might have married making me more in line with Aunt Mary. If I do not post a great deal of detail about Mary, who has survived my mother's death age by one year so far, there are reasons for that, namely that our accounts are linked on twitter, secondly, she was a Catholic principal and she'd kill me, if you catch my drift, but thirdly, she accomplished what the spastic dowager didn't, and this deserves respect. David Ward, on the other hand, would have been drawn and quartered in Foucault's medieval examples of criminal torture, and I am rather antagonistic toward his memory, though he looks better minus that bloody beard. He had jet black hair in the day, and the best way to describe him is as a lecherous porcine trickster from whom I should have given berth. He was one of the earliest authority figures to hint at clinical depression, with that cocked eyebrow expression suggesting do something about it. So when Erik, demigod of ADAPT, worn out with me on his couch. diagnosed me with the same eyebrow cock, the superimposed memory between the philanderer and the almost -transsexual, now merely a skin and bone Dr. Seuss, suggests affinity of anathema.
The dowager is cognizant of the fact, that while Nick Denton did not engage her in any fashion, he allowed her to use Gawker's tools. He did not judge me as I judge him and Peter Thiel both. If Jerry was here with me, his reprimand of my livid disgust would hurt, tangibly, and Ward would give me that cocked eyebrow, but it is due to boomers like Ward that such evil continues to perpetuate itself, that humanity has lost its compass, that Islamic terrorism learned from the IRA playbook, that transhumanism is on the verge of making things worse. Through the approximately 8 years my persona has been posting, much of what she has been doing was game theory according to her rules, not the CIA whiff of great sex with Victor Garber in Alias. I am still too much the cripple in her own head to repudiate Denton entirely. I liked Gawker. I'd like to kick Thiel's ass, and the light has dawned on me as to the utilitarian value of Roman crucifixion. And that is not good enough, of course. It is rhetorical hyperbole that a nigger lover garnished my sympathy, and a gay libertarian has me burning mad, and I mostly want to vomit.
My non-fiction collection will be lengthier than first assumed, but the formatting, the revisions, the possibility of retyping an entire hard draft into it makes catering to influenza seem nearly like a vital excuse. While I am not a great admirer of David Brooks, and mailed him that sentiment, I too, have lost a little bit of my soul, to echo his Friday analysis. I'm dispirited. I want to fight with professors, bury Paul Krugman in Donald Trump's cemetery tomb, replace Lenin's waxed body with Hillary. No one would notice.
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