The bitch is back

stone cold sober as a matter of fact

Teetering on the edge of a precipice doesn't stop incidental commands from firing along the neural network on which our minds are, if only that, a conceptual extension. An entreaty to Vast Drive about my block on twitter led to an interesting revelation: I am considered a pornographer. I have battled the establishment in a myriad of ways, and because  I launch into vulgar tirades, I get a label like that, pornography. Weary sigh, need to revise, as if it matters on the close of 1500 posts, reading too much into social media actions, as well. Henry Miller's nihilist rant was ruled not obscene, and I'm a pornographer. Uh huh. Vast Drive didn't block me for my politics, but because their social media manager solicited web porn, otherwise indifferently. I've been graphic, sometimes effectively, sometimes too rushed, but I am not selling "the fuck of the century," in the immortal words of Michael Douglas feint riding Sharon Stone. When Basic Instinct went to DVD, I was still imposing myself on Jimmi Shode and Erik, and you cannot see them, their thick porcine and ghoulishly androgynous human forms, not very nearly approximated on Modern Family. Jimmi is just fat, an ugly flat nose, beady insecure eyes. He pushes back against management by writing defiant nonsense on memos. I, on the other hand, have actual tort against Presby, they know it, and its getting ugly.

The Gladhandler (pseudonym because his cerebral palsy limits him) used to be one of our lambs. Parceled out between us, Erik, corrupt self-hating trans, Linda the Jewish denier prevaricator, me, Debbie. He asked me to give his aide a cigarette. He has no other existence. Who am I to judge? It isn't that I condemn limited functioning invalids, but even Sean Penn made his mentally retarded father dynamic. Gladhandler isn't, he's a dog on a leash.

You'll have to kill me first.