One wearies of the rise of the Irish

"I did it; I beat the system."-- Ellen Muth

Beneath its supernatural elements, (I don't like the term mythology, which Wiki uses) Dead Like Me is slightly too courageous, too honest, about the perplexing transitory nature of being alive and dead alive, and our lust for experience, with certain contingencies outside of that, oddball clubs of all sorts, like Trek conventions. It was always disconcerting to me that Roddenberry arguably created a cult as well as science fiction for television. One may enjoy the adventures of the Enterprise, or guffaw, but people who dress up as Klingons no doubt fantasize about the permanent removal of pubic hair through electrolysis, and need a life, though this is how they get it, thinking of bizarre formulas, or rather, appreciating that people like Fuller make them work, and yet, some of the reaping episodes, particularly Callum's, are poorly directed, maudlin, and at the same time, the most disconcerting (what the fuck was that with the gay couple, jesus, one aspirates) I obviously didn't like that scene, though I'm not sure what got edited after Showtime leased its rights for public syndication. Mason always is on the receiving end of the take down; no wonder he zones it out. The birthday party father was particularly risible, and if his scorn was meant to be affecting, it worked. I would have stolen a quarter pint of Jack Daniels from a drunkard too, forcing myself to pay attention, as I may never get near this level of quality in the near term, and it's almost over, as we're in season two, past the pet reaper.

Take out the Protestant elements, overlooking the constraints of my palsy and the abuse I and my sister sustained (she got the brunt of it physically from my mother's post-divorce trash, and I carry guilt I couldn't protect Stephanie. I already know what her therapy sessions amount to even if I scoffed at what she hinted), I was Ellen's Georgia coming of age, and not getting to do what normal 18 year olds do, always on the outside, manipulating teachers. I might have had more courage after a certain point. You'd like it if I was more life affirming. I did strike out on my own, brave, stupid, obstinate girl, worked, traveled, secretly pissed on hotel carpeting in Hershey, survived date rape, fucked drug addicts and conflicted, wounded married men who fought my mockery and kept coming back until they won, and I still lost, penniless poet whose transfer skills turn inward to fear of irreversible injury. In the modern era, losing children is a microcosm of survivor's guilt, very much part of my father's retreat. I never had his love, try as hard as I might, particularly after he lost his son, the psycho boy he fought so hard to save. It is the closest entry I have into the insulating grief of the Khans, their coping mechanism being a scorched earth policy towards the lightning rod that Trump is. I stayed away from the brawl, partially due to my lack of comprehension as to why it gained such a high profile, and who started it-- but if you're a Muslim American going into the front lines of an irrational ideologically driven Iraqi war to show what a patriot you are in the face of a corrupted jihad, then you can expect to lose your progeny; to then use the media to lick your wounds is unseemly, even if Donald is a juvenile delinquent who has elevated narcissism as deserving of executive authority. If, on the seventh, I drive downstairs and wait in line to vote in the social services room on the ground floor, I may throw that vote away on Harambe, who became a manufactured news item: dead apes don't poll five percent on their own initiative. Someone put the gorrilla in the question--  then split the ticket to keep Toomey ensconced in incumbency, or throw it away to a slightly more deserving Johnson. Samuelson, Wapo's economic columnist, once suggested the US is increasingly more like Europe. I'd say Mexico, instead.