Caramel Coated Sponges

My concern over Ciccariello isn't entirely hypocritical. I have, perhaps legitimately, felt the wrath of the left in my psychic bonding with Christopher Dorner, Google received abuse host reports, as Google does, and threatened to disrupt my ability to use their host services, with skittish assurances that "no content would be deleted". I did want Christopher Dorner to win in his battle with the LA police, and I wasn't being satirical. Sometimes I am, but not while this man was alive. Did I want him to murder his Captain's daughter? No, and his taunts on that officer's message service foretold the endgame of Dorner's agony, of which I'm envious, while some of you are thinking you need more than lithium.

Fair game, after a lifetime of torture and abuse; if an instructor like Ciccariello can be flippant on social media, as I sometimes am, about politically destructive capacities we're taught to take seriously, even in mitigating bitterness, we've got problems, and I am definitely a contributor. I cannot castigate Ciccariello. I'm not outraged. I don't believe he should be threatened, but he was more stupid than judicious in taunting social media to bite him. It is dumb. With Jerry McGuire, it was only internal, and I wasn't a witness, only the gatherer of anecdotal defiance. The only thing roaring in my ears, was this man, who had a gift, that of making me forget my horribly contorted flesh, had been fired. I was about 21ish, and went into the ladies room, curiously devoid of trannies, unless my broken body was a stand in to gender identity challenges, and howled. I kicked the stalls, burst into tears, and finally went back to class to collect my paper. He was wearing a checkered picnic cloth shirt, my eyes were bloodshot, but he acted as if everything was normal. If he had not, perhaps I would not be in the inner city destroying myself because my internal insurrectionist is driven by hate. 
I am here because my emotional tumult over this man was a boomerang, a fellow now almost like one of Yeats skeletons on a stick, and I went a boom a rang rang, and became a vile bigot. I keep asking myself what it was, why this man. And concede everyone else was right, normal girls aren't driven by such intense compulsion. My answer is the sexual molestation I received at the hands of my mother's men: I saw it in Jerry, and what I saw, I wanted to be vanquished by; that level of hate is intense.