"I never molested Dylan."-- Woody Allen, not dispositive, but given the benefit of the doubt by the Grahams, before or after Bezos ate them
Spastic is fully cognizant of the fact that even "established" writers get rejected, but at my age, similar to Kathleen Parker, I should be able to shoot out of the park at a better rate, and why can't I? The after effect of miscreant disability activists. I know British and Canadian cripland occasionally deign to pat attention to me, and I'm going to be blunt: November 1999 was the last time I transmitted an email to the formerly named Linda C. Richman, now Dezenski. I cannot remember every word of that last transmission, but I did tell her I'd like to kill her, and I was never more serious in my life, though the last time I spoke to her, diminished to an ineffectual turnip, my psyche might have been shrink wrapped by a witch doctor. Five years later I would be molested again by a bovine mulatto who makes me look pretty, at least next to Scarlett Johansson. Allen, it seems, knows what to do with this woman so difficult to cast, and then, two years after that molestation, thanks to ADAPT holding HUD at gunpoint, which included the now infantile transsexual, Erik von Schmetterling, whose female nigger nanny, name unknown, received the strident assertion, after Erik saw my finger-- for the uninitiated, the middle finger is an obscene gesture in the States-- "I'd break his neck if I could, he's lucky I can't."
The renovation to the building in 07 took I do not know how many years off my life, and the Quickie decided to expire; for very nearly 13 months, I could not write, barely do anything; Trudy Richardson sees her opportunity, and attacks. On her side of it, I had been missing pisses, until Frank mentioned urinals, which still aren't perfect-- but Richardson's attacks don't seem to do anything but justify my temper to strike her down-- which once again begs the question: If a disabled woman doesn't want to comply, why not evict, whether or not the self-same woman recertifies? I hate a building manager beyond what her character is worth. At least Linda was a worthwhile adversary, a role model I looked up to. I don't quite elevate Richardson, much as Rhys Meyers elevates Johansson in Match Point (05). My only major complaint with Woody's arc is that Woody makes Johansson a little too complicit in her own spiral. I actively pursued married men, and did so before the Internet. How did I manage that? An independent press trade secret. Minorities like Trudy are pests to me, like the mice all my dead males make short work of. Kimmy toys with them, but if they escape her they tend to vanish.
In a longer, more objective post, I want to eviscerate what Jimmi and Erik actually achieved. Very little. Diamond Park, at least, was designed for wheelchair access. Riverside is just a senior living facility with basically stupid, mentally ill, and chronic tenant refuse better off being recycled by predators much sooner than they are. Even with all PHA subjected Riverside's tenants to, in other words, these studios are not user friendly to affective quadriplegics. No small feat, then, that I could once subsidize myself to the tune of three thousand dollars, to then being reduced to scrambling for pennies. I cannot afford to go insane. My Commonwealth made a huge investment in my intelligence quotient. But I am being outpaced by automated upload.
Rhys Meyers made a decent Dracula. One that fucked like a perv, but since we're talking about humanity being afraid of its own atavistic tendencies, it is a soft critique. In this end of life arc by a tarnished genius, the intensity Rhys-Meyers displays, setting him apart even after he solves his problem-- though it is unclear if he'll evade the law forever, is the same intensity which emanates me, apart. I've paid all my life.
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