Java Suture Script

The Grande Braderie de Lille attracted 2.5 million visitors-- the BBC, ever reliable vestige of the world order its empire aspired to install

Allow me to preface this by writing that I know beforehand that my participation on collaborative sites like Niume is voluntary: if I want to stop, then stop if I really believe I'm worth more. My real point of contention is that over participation in social media lends itself to dumbing down, not developing signature distinction of voice. This is why I prefer caustic vitriol. The negativity in nasty honesty is a motivating vision, but in the context of a disabled woman in the crowd, my experience on LinkedIn is that a significant number of users were too paranoid to engage, and in my limited attempts to be active in its quasi-academic whizbiz portal, I was intimidated at first, then flagged for relevance, and so we all learn to post next to nothing, unless we're in private groups. I now succeed just fine on LimkedIn by not typing, though my known real world enemies also have CV listings on the network competitor.

Stay offline? Force myself? I make an effort. but it is increasingly difficult to write and pitch and job hunt without search. Plugging in is both lifeline and anathema, a gauze bandage and a frustration. I've relaxed slightly on FB, warily, and fear the administrators in my network will suspend me on twitter, because the need to bite will eventually get the best of me, with profligate necessity, though I want it as a resource, sparing as that may be; but Niume makes me recoil, as if to ball myself in a protective posture from human ordinance. The savant may inhabit the intellect, but it is still an intellect, not a shopping spree in the Lille Flea Market, held in abeyance after the Paris attacks.

The good news, such as I have any, is that I found my coffee essay, finally, weirdly, and I am likely to field 20 rejections over it, by excoriating Frank's ghost, planking it with sentiments about the perils of commodity and retail. The stupid bastard antagonized me, and still I lack the decency to allow the maggots enough time to clear the skeleton of gangrene in its moldy coffin. But I can tell you why this is: Lava Hulk was my lengthiest failed relationship, and I comprehend the retreat to The Altar of The Dead, while I clarify once more. Platforms for organizations have the right not to respond, but I should have the right as well to express my desire for prospective partnership. Content pages increasing lack procedural steps on how to gain access, whether non profit, or independent media.

Hayfever In A Fog

Australia aroused special doubt. --Tatyana Tolstaya, my favorite Tolstoy relative.

I came on actually to mine Google on Ryan O'Neal, vaunted cancer patient and parent of disabled son, and wound up pitching to a small zine on FB because I knew no other way, and I begin to get upset with how I am supposed to interface with media platforms if no one is using email anymore, and here I am, whining, wondering how I am going to prove what I told CATO about my thesis on this movie, the hot and sexy Driver. Cato no doubt said "Say what?" It was not a formal pitch. I just told them cripple with the brain that wouldn't die might be on her way. 

I hate Niume, honestly, and I've been filing my buttocks on sandpaper to write decent posts, and still hate them. No, they have done nothing. Yes, they have better collaborative bloggers than I, few, and far, between, and I hate them anyway, because I cannot write 900 penny posts for 10 dollars, but my mind is writing them. Just who the holy fuck do I think I am? Christ. Cripple of the 500 things before she strokes, fractures her fused thick hytonia clenched feet, stained with waste and dead skin, coliform dead skin. My aunt looks horrible. She doesn't carry her weight as well as my mother did, and I ponder how well she's walking on that knee joint. My cousin is just as obese, but freaked out that her baby boy might have had a chronic disease due to involuntary head movements-- this is your attitude about conditions, and yet, you all want me to be nice, civil, applying community standards. I did not get into this with my cousin. Yes, I get it. Mothers freak until the kid is eighteen, and then carry survivors's guilt if the child dies from an OxyFendayl overdose, or gang war, but still. You don't abort us, but if we fuck up a few times? Oh.

Any ambulatory person not homeless would have suicided at this point in my personal circumstances, pointing toward my ambivalent relationship with Tolstoy's messianic arc enveloping the agony of soul.

Epistolary Address on the Margins: Paul Ryan

"It's more like a slow train wreck."-- Lanhee J. Chen, expectations disappointed

I tweeted a question weeks ago, Mr. Speaker, to your twitter account, about Boehner's warning on repeal and replace. Not being a citizen of Wisconsin in your district, I did not expect a response, but knew you were headed for trouble with your replacement bill, and I do blame you, even if Trump's public face is disingenuous on the matter. No one cares about my opinions. This is partially my fault. If Blogger had actually suspended me two years ago, I might have made it a cause celebre with Breitbart. If I had cleaned up my act, at least on this account, I might have linked it as a resume highlight, but did not quite go to either extreme, except for a recent severe depression over the prospect, not yet actually in process, of summer homelessness, which caused a precipitous drop in my followers, and probably has Dr. Floch shaking his head, a younger and more attractive head than I thought, about the difficulties and demands I place upon myself, but I am a radical, don't believe in making medical paradigms a way of life, and if Medicare costs eat up 20% GNP even before Obamacare, add the VA medical budget to that, Medicaid, it really isn't possible to continue, and I tend to disagree with Timothy Taylor about the cost of the sickest patients: I have a grandmother in her mid 90's in a home, no more than a functional corpse. I do not know how much this is costing her surviving daughter, ten years my senior; it is wrong, and I'd withhold nutrition and hydration. Ditto for my father's brother. He is extremely sick with heart disease and viral infections, and his sister, who has basically served as a self trained hospice nurse since her husband's lung cancer, isn't far behind. I disagree with my Church here, to some extent, and when quality of remaining life is marginal, withhold treatment. It is nothing I haven't written before, but it is what I believe, given that the medical treatment I get is shoddy, with students, or residents who wanted me on oxygen, or an inhaler, failing to take other factors into account, like allergies, and I haven't seen a doctor since my Craigslist hire. Where is my line? I do not know, maybe in my meringues.

Yours was a sorry performance Friday evening, and just as I, you're old enough to remember Tip O'Neill, the last Speaker who had any real corralling power. Earmarks too, which may need to be restored in the House rules. I had hoped to live long enough to see you in the Presidency, a rational corporate conservative, but you ran this game drive like Mickey Mouse. I do own some knowledge about how bills are sponsored and written, and know how hard it is, but you've had national prominence even prior to being Romney's running mate. You should have learned to control the chamber by now. Let's be less headstrong in the future. I have to lie down; pushing too hard.

Third Time's A Charm

"Closing The gap takes a deeper look into the gang stalking phenomenon."-- jacket blurb

BIn closing the distance between my psyche still flying under Google's all powerful radar, I actually emailed the recombinant Jayne Anne because Karina Klaus, the fucking white trash I hired, nearly killing my apartment manager whom I am still ready to rumble into an illegal situation over it, this Karina, the Craigslist swiss cheese Air Jordan brain, fucked around with my contributor copies while I was taking a piss and destroying a 60 dollar flea market skirt I bought from a minority vendor. The only thing I have in this world are my contributor copies, and so I overrode any self-effacement and emailed the once libertine southern debutante. I asked her if she could find the magazine, copy my poem, and send it to me. I was terse, not even offering a salutation. I then emailed her at Rutgers again, claiming I found my copy. and this, in point of fact, is not the case, so I suppose I should now wait, quietly, and see what this woman, over whose picture I destroyed a Poets &Writers issue so I could tape her profile to my door in the hard core badlands 15 minutes down Race, will say. I know Karina is a soft-shelled crab. I know she is in Oregon and whoever the dickwad is that she's fucking, I hope unwittingly compensates me by devastating her with a future episode of abandonment.

How vicious? 

What in the name of my long, abusive, spastic life do I have but my work? My anxiety over a future bi-nervous vulnerability to an unscrupulous feminine manipulator is misguided. The next ambulatory individual who fucks with my life, regardless of race or sexual orientation, is going to experience what it is to have a Roman assassin reborn. No one gives a fuck. I know. This is the age of social media, and I may not be a quadriplegic as scorched as a Precious in triplicate. Karina tends to believe we're friends. I am also going to blow my stack with Google, live, in fairly short order, about monetizing. Me and the mighty Silicon giant, round two. Smell a service suspension round the bend?

Arc of Nitrate Decomposition

Let us return to Professor Phillips momentarily, as the representative teacher novelist and vignette author. My first exposure to Jayne Anne was in an 1983 anthology, Matters of Life and Death. I believe this exposure presented before Jerry sent me trotting after Black Tickets, of which I can recall virtually nothing. "Home" is a strong short story and made a strong impression, but it embodies all of Jayne Anne's weaknesses, a penchant for abstraction, emotional coolness, the clipped mildly vicious bite of women in her social class. It points to her lack of sustaining power as a novelist. I blinded myself to it out of sexual frustration and envy, dangerous enough to be generative of bisexual anxiety, despite the fact I never had a sexual fantasy where oral orgasm involved a lithe and more biologically attractive woman making me the masochistic bitch begging in submission, all games, no glory. Deep enough for you? If so, why am I pushing this?

I may not literally die leaving Riverside section 202 after 24 years of hostility and fear. As a practical matter, whatever I do, first responders would be forced to remove me if I get stranded: I am cognizant this expedites what I've seen Presby do to residents for years, and years, since I was 23, but I just can't take it anymore, and I am hoping I am just clever enough to evade the barbarity Inglis House represents. My online voice, however, will not be what it was, so I'm pulling the knives, pressing the most dangerous triggers which usually ends lives of lesbian suckling gluttony, and am capable of a rather close distinction between a feminine sexual threat which would not lead to positive satiation, because the stark existential reality is, I could never be the Jayne Anne whose chic reticence appeals to a man of breeding, the cosmopolitan urbanite I always longed for: her so so achievements as the modern southern female will fade, because it is the standard, literary milk weed that passes for expression. She is more teacher than writer who makes the blood vibrate, and it is the women who reject teaching whose legacy is the most powerful in literary endeavor.

Despite the catastrophe before me, I am putting the strongest parts of my voice together, the Joanne poet who closed the issue of Oxford Magazine Jayne Anne opened. She aspired to the voice of angels. I intimated Custer's Last Stand can be attributable to the modern consumer economy of appliances like microwaves, much more complex in condemnation. I regret my letter to her publisher, forget what the fizz amounted to, but don't regret the torsion of my own self-deception. The cry that I too wanted a lithe eroticism, that I too wanted the power of God's creation in my vibrant woman's vessel, and was denied. Let's see who shall stand the test of time. The visiting professor or spastic survivor of American genocide.

Giant

"Take a break." Melissa Horton, Yaberrz

I've already told myself that Niume is just another tool. My problem is the posts, taken collectively, drip like the orphanage gruel in Oliver Twist, the other Dickens masterpiece never read, so, on my last megabytes for this billing period, I am waiting for the prompts to kick in, and tomorrow, or later, my tweets to my posts will be invalid. Chrome autopass works on some sites. On others, it creates issues.

I do not know how many of you remember Rock Hudson, in his last days, coming out


I do. I have the memory of the news conference, live, in 1985, and here he is, a wasted consequence of both a sexually permissive society, and concealment based on sexual secrets, a matinee idol of my mother's generation, with her mania never fully, effectively treated until she gave birth to my half brother, and survived the heroin addict she wedded in mistake. Benjamin's father was a late diagnosed schizophrenic. For me, Hudson was a television star, the composite model for Blue Bloods Tom Selleck. I was much better off, a naive ignorant youngster who couldn't decode, and had fantasies of a happy middle class Italian marriage-- but my Pulchinella was barren, and he is a ghost.

I made my decision. I am not recertifying with this Presby building. Trudy Richardson, as far as I am concerned, is a hate crime criminal. The real reason Presby doesn't evict, is section 202 makes money putting senior citizens in hospices and homes. It is a consequential decision, and once the deadline passes, that is it. I cannot change my mind. They will move to evict, and I am the one who keeps taking it. I cannot do this forever.

I do not mean to take the collective human mentality all that seriously, but it is overwhelming me, my need for creative space.

Legerdemain

I'm trying to quit niume and I am trapped. Forgot my password. It just isn't me. I am not an ewe dripping with sentiment, and eventually I'll get into trouble.

Dead Sea Scrolls

Even with fragility being a need, keeping myself at arms' length, Cunningham's work is actually a conventional contrivance, overtly staged. Perhaps the novel lends itself to this almost operatic intensity of monologue. In the film, a great deal rides on Kidman and Harris. They pull it off. And it may be that the performances had such force exactly due to Cunningham's implied disavowal of multiculturalism. Yes, Woolf was sexually fluid and mentally ill, and Kidman's  modern character embodiment was sexually fluid and desperate to flee picket fences, but Cunningham's themes aren't that radical, and are actually fairly bourgeoisie, if you absent the AIDS of the contemporary novelist as metaphor. For me, this is the familiar terrain of 20th century self-interest, nothing more or less, so I don't understand why I found The Hours virtually as traumatizing as Babel, which, to its credit, eschews modernist icing on the birthday cake dessert.

Digressing Clinical Aspects

I just wanted to have a dinner party.-- Meryl Streep keeping abreast of ebullient eschatology

Concentrated dramatic creativity can be detrimental; to iterate it once again, the screen adaptation of Cunningham's derivative novel, The Hours, ripped a hole in my chest, and I had to restrain myself from screaming in email. At Cunningham's publisher, or the author, in much the same way I danced on the griddle of hard copy fan mail for Jayne Anne Phillips, before I concluded, in my maturity, that she wasn't a movement author for me, so much as a secondary iconic figure to cling to Jerry McGuire, which in its own way, is me being rather merciless. Was Phillips sexually attractive in her Poets & Writers heyday? Sure, I am not entirely immune to MacLaine's discovery in The Children's Hour, but neither does it mean I have kd lang's sexual fantasies. I do not gurgle over the breast nipple of which I was deprived. It has never gotten me off. I'm simply so masochistic, and in so much pain, that feminine sensuality opens vulnerability-- but I can never read Cunningham, and have to stay away from the film. It is too intense, however much I am the same.

I am not in particularly good shape. "So? What do you want us to say, go get joy juice." Doing a nice piece on twitter's problems, however, still makes me inexplicably lively, as I believe social media's herd mentality is not always beneficent. I am not here to get hyped, or win popularity contests. I am not Wallace either, but I perceive the price he paid for his laser lens elocution, and I am such a lesser, spastic figure.

Perverse Relief at Stella's Pounding

The problem with putting two and two together is that sometimes you get four, and sometimes you get 22.-- shamelessly culled from the now entrenched

Beneath the surface of its spoof, Trial and Error takes aim at the new exceptionalism: the excuse of the chronic condition for ineptitude, particularly, but carefully embodied in Sherri Shepherd's "blackish" magnification of matriarchal racial dysfunction, though ethnicity is also carefully obfuscated, redirected into our stereotypes of white trash southern ruralism, which D'Agosto has to navigate as the green shoot urbanite. Were the two episodes NBC aired funny? No. Lithgow cannot carry this comedy as the American Don Quixote, but the dowager will credit the writers this much: they remind us that shit happens, and veracity is not always balanced by Manichaean duality as exemplified by Daschiell Hammett's great noir sagas.

What did Goodreads ever do to me? Nothing, but I detest crowd funding banality! Even while, in my intrepid fashion, I'm hoping to get onto 23rd street tomorrow evening. After a storm, functional powerchair users combat automobiles by taking the street. The Quantum has stopped shorting, probably due to sacrifices made with personal hygiene, minimizing water vapor exposure. 

My certification looms. Stella has knocked my schedule and I am at war. I want to roll away before I commit a crime against ignorant persons I despise. I could also turn it into a referendum, dragging City Council and Toomey into it, Christ knows whom else. I have a few favored Pakistani store clerks, but I've told you already, I have a thing for the Asian male of the species.

And On the Saga Goes

Editors are a rather lowly masquerade, an ever entertaining game of musical chairs:

To Kevin Larimer,

My name is Joanne Marinelli, an ailing disability journalist from Philadelphia. I was a long time supporter of Poets & Writers from the days when the periodical was called Coda. I discovered the organization from issues of the magazine in my dead academic advisor's office, and thought I believed in what the organization represented until I joined Speakeasy in 97-98. Moderator "Dana" banned me from the boards in 02, because users complained about my injection of quadriplegia and my bad attitude, and within the last two years, one of your interns blocked me from following PW's twitter account because I reacted to a poetry invitation by tweeting the organization discriminates against the disabled, the block being the case in point. Poets & Writers continues to solicit me by regular mail. I want to know why. 

I cannot compel you to answer me, and I confused another gentleman on the phone, relating to this long association, around 9/16 when I managed to get past voicemail recordings: What I do not want in response is "if you do not wish to be solicited we'll remove your address". I am 54 years old, facing a grave crisis which is putting me at risk, and PW ostracizes me online, telling me in 02 that your methodology doesn't serve my needs, but your circulation department solicits me for a subscription in order to serve those needs. I have the latest envelope, with postmark, to prove it came after the twitter block, and I will be filing an ADA complaint with the NY state attorney if PW and I, as a writer with cerebral palsy, cannot reach some kind of accord on the matter.


What do I want from Poets & Writers? A fair arbitration. I no longer have time for Speakeasy, but I supported PW diligently through the turn of the century. Check your records. What do I have to show for it? I am rotting under the same section 202 rental agent I have lived under since 1986. Do the math. Do you think, as an ambulatory male, that this represents an extraordinary length of time for an unhappy wheelchair user with a graduate education, defaulted loans she'll never pay off, her health failing? Len Fulton never treated me this way, and I succeeded creatively under Dustbooks with far greater regularity than I do with your magazine listings; I'd like to write a retrospective tribute to him from that perspective, using his surviving family as sources, at least initially. I attach the column he accepted while SPR was still in print. This email is long enough, but I also seek access to emergency services for writers in peril. Gee, can PW help me there?

Ley de Fuga

"I'm not running from you people the rest of my life." --Clive Standen, pilot

I seem to remember some of Dead Man's Gun from my last year of cable television, long ago now, so I was mistaken in the belief that when This TV first ran the series, it was a new experience; not all of them, but Peter Firth doing a double feint as The Ripper, posing as a precursor to Scotland Yard, throwing suspicion on the surgeon, this is eerily familiar in the epoch of my vigor. I still had hope, in 1997, that I'd "recover" from my Matrix Research Institute divorce. It was more like a critical injury actually, despite my vigorous combat with my misery at the job: I used to say to myself, "look at Linda, dedicated, disciplined" and I'd picture Jewish princess on her knees in her office. I was never her, however, and if moving into the ghetto was my first fatal mistake, going into mental health was my second. Never had the requisite emotional armor, and affixing myself to online interaction, 30 odd years or so in, is having too much of an impact. I differentiate posting addiction and cyber sexual chatting-- which I stopped --I could see I was potentially compromising my safety after a round of Turkish Backgammon smut (he was a valet in Jersey, nothing exotic)-- from the fact that now I log on to decrease agitation, and conversely, wind up provoked and over extended, even as I am rolling myself out of Riverside, I am fussing about a damn data plan on laptops over six years old, is an indication of my organic failure: I'll be dead or insane in about five years, best estimation-- but just because Showtime produced all this conscientious liberal learning to accept people for who they are material, it does not make their product better than commercial series, necessarily. Dead Man's Gun is, at is essence, the Jewish liberal dominion in Hollywood smirking at Gentile intrigue over mysticism, Christian investment in it, with sharia law fatigue. The Snakefinger episode is actually a cruel penalty, amputating a safecracker's hand deliberately with a backfired gun. It is more Middle Eastern than American frontier. I have issues with ambulatory fears over chronic conditions, but I am not that irrational as to say disarticulation for a bank robber in late Victorian America is justified.

I ask forbearance. Cripples do not leave senior housing after 32 years of blunt force trauma, but I know, whatever I have to abandon, I'm going, and I won't make it. I am internalizing charming murder sprees, novelizing them on one end, terrified of losing my balance on the other. I never really had a good home life, but my mother's trash trying to fuck me in Ridley Park was an oasis next to my life in this rust belt Commonwealth and the urban ignorance which has magnified my stress.

Burn Notice Northeast

Normally, I do not allow myself to react to being socially cut in digital space with such swiftness, but I will have Twitter note, for the record, I did absolutely nothing to novelist RD Ronald. Did not know s/he existed. S/him's twitter photo appears male; I asked s/he if s/he was transgender, and said author blocked me in span of two tweets. This author followed me, so who, precisely, is baiting whom? I was going to follow the "miserable" queen back, and that was this biological female's tag. Should I be banned for presumptive innocence? He hurt me, for nothing.

Anyone?

Smothered In The Flock

"It was dehumanizing."-- Allison Stranger

A twitter notification, and I refrain from sarcasm, not particularly caustic, searching for the right way to put it. People are imbeciles, regardless of metadata, data mining, and automation which can actually be blamed on CNN and Ted Turner, historically. CNN, lampooned as it was, anticipated the nervous breakdown of the global conglomeration that is today's digital economy.

If I am so full of my own fucking ego, I certainly don't have any brand imprints but for a thimble touch, and whose particular fault is that? I have not troubled the New Yorker in an eon, not their kind of writer. The Atlantic. The New Republic, Boston Review, these were years ago, almost. This close, and The Atlantic does falter. Some of its women are weaker bitch slap contributors. In today's environment, one can shrug old media, as well, but we know the elite when we see it. Leaving myself out of it, there are perhaps four Niume bloggers who have professional experience, Gary Sharpe being one, the Parkinson's guy, and had I paused to assess, given my platform experience, I would have put him in as my referral. Sorry there, big guy. I'm hampered by aging laptops and reluctance to upgrade Windows, though Microsoft will eventually force the issue; I've already killed myself for CPM metrics, which is why I haven't pushed my posts for exhaustive originality, stringing my points on the backs of other stringers, those on the beat, access to Lexus. I could buy Lexus if I wanted to now, but I'm waiting. I need a media outlet to cushion resource expenditure of that sort, some kind of contract, cripple limitation notwithstanding.

I know I can quit Niume, significantly slow my pace, but it is mostly drivel, and that is the issue. I'm not afraid to push Niume's buttons, but their users are so placid, my meanness would be smothered by a melting pint of Ben and Jerry's. I know when I'm licked, even if I haven't barred rabid fangs, but I am going bare them here, to tell you this, whether Blogger gets alarmed or not: Philadelphia has taught me that black counter culture is destroying the United States, and in the collective sense, Black America, go fuck yourself. You want to get out, go back to Liberia. I hate you, not individually, but in the macro world, collectively, you drag yourselves down, with ignorance generative of your own cruelty. I can never repair myself from the bosom of Negro fatalism, and say this quite calmly: I am going to fight Trudy Richardson, Debra Horne, and Gerry, the old cleaning lady who is mostly out of her mind. Why am I going to do this? I have to. If they were white, given the same institutional hostility of religious corporations, I would do the same thing if the whites had violated my dignity to the same degree. Will I go to prison? Probably not. Be forcibly incarcerated? That I do not know, but I am beyond the reigns of my family in terms of not agitating. If I had a way to penetrate my former supervisor, it is her learned prevarication that triggered this, set the ball in motion. It is nuanced, as I've written in 30 odd posts, and I was at times taut, maudlin, but she played me to a criminal offense, and is the target of retribution I cannot access but by federal civil litigation I probably cannot engender. She and I are both near the end of functional biology, to the extent of the cerebral palsy we both have. I am not taking any more of it, criminal malfeasance, from minorities with skulls of two inch thickness and 100 brain cells between them. I'm taking them down, and if I suffer for it, change has to start somewhere. I'm cranky with the rain, and have to do grocery I am really not up for this morning, with my grand last gasp playing itself out. I will never befriend an African again, ever, though they need not see this, as yet. I can still mask it.

Milo Refurbished, No Fecal Orifice Required

"If we find green alien goo or Spock's phaser, we'll let you know." --Joe Spano, recycling The X-Files, still soggy about the ears

While I am here, feeling guilty for wanting to stream another hyped black thriller to take a break, but not to worry, budget put it in a chastity lock, I thought of a wickedly explosive piece, which, if I could pull it off, might shine Trumpian flashlights in my direction, and break off some of Mile's glacier fury my way, but I have to pull it off first, and I remain uncertain that I can. We'll see. I could always post it here and be made fun of, [cf Masculine Culture, who shares an affinity with Tom Earle for the liberal call of "get involved," unless we're liable, then it's fuck off]. All I wanted to know from these boys is why they followed me, that's all. I was nice to a digital designing globe trotter, tweeted her respectfully when she found me. She bailed anyway. Hesitated, then booted her account, and then took Culture a bit sorely. If Libertarians follow me, I expect allegiance despite my stoking steam engine. It is here for all to read, and account holders run, shrieking for the hills, antagonizing some of us in turn. If I cannot sell it too, this tantalizing attack, I can always test poor Niume. Chuckle. Insofar as I am aware, I have no issues with Niume users, nor have any desire to poke pointy sticks. I put one mental in her place, sternly. But I am much like Bannon, from what I can infer, and Niume will have to weigh this eventually. I will speak my mind. The kids will gawk, get quite upset, report me. I caused a hugely divisive battle at Poet & Writers even before I decided murder and genocide were still a form of philosophical argument, before I openly claimed racism and homosexual hate my own.

For this evening, I am only going to rough the idea; I am working other things. 

Gunning for Breitbart

"You do know what you're saying is treason?"-- Robert Vaughn

Sometimes I weary of directories, and remain tempted to let Writer's Market drop, as they cannot keep their information logs current. I did not initially approach FEE in order to spend hours in research, only to fail twice, and then support them on the skeletal remains of my father's affluence, simply for a byline geared towards yuppies. But if I can pass Jeffrey's muster at a future date, it is a gateway back to my former success, matriculated in the Fourth Estate. I also chewed a cuticle on Reason, remaining good as my word, not because Brian will keep telling me "no," so much as because I too want to move beyond core libertarian tenets, not that I do not see now that they go small scale, with one or two in depth features. Neither publication matters right now. I am exhausted, even through the graft I took from Jeffrey in January was small, and needs to be altered, expanded, for other outlets. So why, then, when Mr. Tucker was being surreptitious about rum as the "spirit of pirates," did I not reply with repartee in kind?
My tweet, in fact, was inappropriate. Don't write it in public, I told myself, but did, that my abuser stepfather drank rum, so I prefer gin. Conservatives eschew victimization, and that small pin drop on my part was escalating, mildly. From what I can tell, I like the man, and do not begrudge the paddle too much. On some things I have to pay the price of going slower. As long as I can function as writer, too, topics can recycle, in unexpected ways. Learned that by now. It was not his rejection that compelled me, so much as I was saying something about distribution of bad outcomes. It is difficult enough that for spastics, fluidity of motion is a fantasy. We also have to become poultry dishes for bigoted den mothers and carrion for ambulatory predators, and here I am, still trying to compete with the best minds, driving myself to exhaustion because the Night Owl kicked in after morning lethargy; even though I am not sexually attracted to Ray Liotta, all the sudden he's an interesting fuck. I am not sure how to explain this, even to myself. Repulsion arousal, hate sex, ferocity bang. 

As to schedule, syndication has thrown me some godsends, though I want to budget in High Castle for itself. We'll see. I need to chat with ATT and see if my old battle axed PC's can handle the wireless device, and then change my plan. I feel like a fucking data fugitive, not particularly healthy, in and of itself.

How Trudy Richardson Made Me A Racist

I got it done, and this is why I'll go to prison if necessary:

1. Do you deny or affirm that Diamond Park was under Presby's corporate management from 1986 through August 1994 when I was a tenant there?

2. Do you deny or affirm that Ellen Hovey was the supervisory agent for both the Diamond Park and Riverside buildings until her retirement prior to 2005?

3. Do you deny or affirm that Mrs. Phillips was a tenant at Diamond Park during my eight year residence?

4. Do you deny or affirm that on my second to last day at work for Liberty Resources in February 1993, Brandon Phillips had full access to Diamond Park, with no security, and targeted me for a home invasion, where upon, he was arrested, serving two years for aggravated assault, attempting to strangle me to death?

5. Do you deny or affirm that Terri Way was manager of Diamond Park at the time of my assault, and that she prevaricated with my trauma to dissuade me from litigating Presby for gross negligence? That she deceived me into moving into Riverside's hostile environment as a section 202 unit?

6. Do you deny or affirm that through 2005, I was under constant duress from Riverside's senior community?

7. Do you deny or affirm that I sought, and received the intervention of a disability attorney for blatant abuse of authority in forcing me to pay for dining services I did not want in the first place and being banned from the community room?

8. Do you deny or affirm that after being molested by a paraprofessional, you deliberately intimidated me with a minority assessment team? This after nine months of waiting for a new power chair, that you made the following observations: 1. that "it was taking a long time" for my power chair to be delivered? 2. That you "violated my privacy"?

9. Do you deny or affirm that Debra Horne offered me housekeeping assistance during that violation of privacy? That this in kind support never materialized?

10. Do you deny or affirm that one of the assessment team males told me to call Liberty Resources without the realization that I have contractual breach of contract and ethical issues with the CIL, which you yourself witnessed in Brian Coleman's behavior? 

11. Do you deny or affirm that Erik Von Schmetterling and partner Jimmi Shrode were investigated for said issues in 10 above, before Schmetterling's health broke, and these two serve as a constant reminder of my lack of economic security, and that this is therefore not an optimal environment for me emotionally?

12. Do you deny or affirm that aside from the molestation, three paraprofessionals attempted 
a) to steal my article commission paychecks, swindled me out of three hundred dollars, and tried to steal my assets after my mother's death in 2005, and that I told my bankruptcy attorney, who said the paraprofessional from Germantown was engaging in illegal behavior opening my mail to look for a will?

13. Do you deny or affirm that this is the system you are trying to force me to return to through attacking me with Health and Human Services agents in 2014, and that once again, your then supervisory agent Ken Cantrell engaged in sexually intimidating behavior with these agents, preventing me from dressing?


14. At what point in our conversation about Erik's attendant harassing me did you receive permission to threaten me through my terminally ill emergency contact? This is the only open ended question I will ask, and in view of the fact that you are an ignorant hate crime who feels section 202 is a police state, I hereby refuse to recognize your authority until I receive punitive damages for the significant liabilities I have on your employer, yourself, and Debra Horne.