Hard Analysis Halt

"Stendhal and Sartre, curious choice,"-- Simenon's dialogue

Blogger never conveyed to me in explicit terms that I could no longer monetize this account through reactivation of AdSense. When I did post to the forums, my quandary apparently wasn't clear to computer literate users. They asked if I had an account. Yes. Inactive, because I was a doofus in initially experimenting with LiveJournal, which ended its partnership with Google's services. I earned a whopping 3.49 cents, and there it sits. I have tried repeated to figure out how to reactivate AdSense with this domain-- though not recently.

I could scrub out my biting temperament and remove the adult content flag. As most of you know, I am more stodgy than explicitly graphic, and even if I wanted to incite in a direct one on one ratio, I'd more than likely just get my ass kicked. The unfortunate bastard elect, who rode the gravy train of my vitriol, can get away with it. I can't, for obvious reasons, as advocating violence pushes boundary lines, and my intellectual pride, most of the time, says invective is beneath me, and even if I pushed and got away with it, I'd have to live with the results, which Donald Trump seems unwilling to do, or is perhaps incapable of doing, taking responsibility for his gut reactions. I'm not quite positive, if I suggest X, and Y followed, that I would not bring Satan into being, but by the same token, I am naturally inclined toward anarchy as something worth experiencing, life on full throttle.

Just not all of the time. Leading me to the perplexity of being always over-extended. If I go to Niume News, I'd get even slower, unless I break up with Blogger, and archive this eclectic thesis for something more topical, policy oriented, at least in an imitation of decency, though I'm already subversively thinking about calling it "The Dump," punning on old age obsession with shitting successfully. [Who really cares if I triumph over anxiety and entropy with commode discharges which avert disaster?]

I am a bit pissed, that in my effort to distangle disability center trauma, I have no choice but to cope with the reality of what is now true physical decline, and no, it simply is not fair. I not only have to live with a criminally negligent landlord and disability "activists" with no ethics, but now the unalterable ravage of the flesh. 32 years of my failure to change this environment and circumstance has taken its toll. I do not, at least technically, have to abandon Disability Arts, but I'd be forced to let it slumber to attempt other interests, even if changing my spots might have a dubious outcome. Simenon seems to imply that Stendhal and Sartre are incompatible, or had a precognitive insight into the spastic dowager's creation. It is perfectly legitimate to see Stendhal as a synchronic gateway to phenomenology.