Terminals Heir

What tyrant daughters do to their fathers; the man is 81 years old, married to a community college colleague of my mere, a woman with a caustic upper bite, one on which I might have been trained in my own levels of bitumen, if I did not know better, and at our respective ages life might be more sedate, unless that is another fiction. Yes, Marvel Inhumans, evidence of short term memory lapses, struggle to recall the title. A few minutes of the opening were lost, but its grandiosity resides in my mostly bad fantastical efforts in a similar parallel. Black Bolt is a recognized face, and Lock Jaw is a routable infant, though I’m probably not going to have the luxury of following gods battle for hierarchy over and above its anthesis on ABC’s schedule. I want to ask you why I always let myself get whipped, but no one reading this would dare ask me to examine my own pathological shimmer: I only liked 2 aides out of 7 out of at least the dozen plus who waltzed in and out in nine years, one bolting after I had a bout with Chris the blind on the telephone when he lived near Harvard, “going off,” in the popular lingo, adjustment disorder spurting the vein, while Medusa is free to get a decent gut thrust on the islands. This woman, the aide, orange hair dye, pleaded, “I think you need help,” but what I did to myself only deepened the injury, like an Archimedes’ screw, slicing shaved steak, and at 1:15 eastern standard time, turbulence is a pebble, with a bad bruise on my right bicep. Had the Friday police used force, that certainly would have been a You Tube uproar video: I have never put this Quantum in manual, do not know how, neither would the patrolmen, and they would have had to drag or haul me out of the seat, subduing me into a real incident, because even if I had not struggled, my stress is obdurate as is, and I’m posting to Blogger! I can feel my bones as thin as a wing, and at the same time, I am a granite woman, obdurate, to what end? How can I be respected now, praised for doing decent work when I cannot activate 365 properly to convert Office 2007? Then again, 40k, in views, may not mean what I believe it does, and I don’t have to assert I did not know how deeply hate could go for Trudy and her colleagues, do I? It isn’t entirely pointless. The revenge I felt toward Jewish supervisor, while intense, was a mourning grievance, but not this. Not after how they keep sicking at me, after hours stealth attacks, after years and seven previous managerial follies, my criminal victimizations. Since it isn’t a joke, and not hyperbole, I cannot say it. I know despite what the woman has done she isn’t worth it. Linda, the supervisor, was a heroine, a leader worth following who broke my heart, no Freudian strings attached. This Richardson, no, she is malevolent, and I’m already in enough hot water, but I’m starting to comprehend motive as a decent woman should not—perhaps I should lie down.

Janis Joplin

More police at the behest of the almighty 202 rental agent, and once again, the extent of both defiance and impairment led the officer’s supervisor to overrule Trudy’s threats. Usually, I am relieved when a lifelong torment like this has been removed, but the enormous margin of error I have placed on my shoulders is deadweight: now I am nothing left to lose, regardless of daddy’s scrambling. Lousy timing, as it is weekend, and I am going to have to spend most of it looking for a “place” where I will not have a coronary in terror, but this is what the corporation’s hire of Trudy has done to me, and I have known the modus operandi since 1994. This is a very long time to feel threatened, not even near 62 years of age. I know none of you wish to read anymore, so I shall stop, but they were only victorious in wresting a notice from me due to my stupid, misplaced faith in a very outdated Toshiba. I would give my crooked right elbow to get my files open. I keep phone tagging Tom, with groan of burden. What time I shall have to plug in, let alone write, in the near interval, is an interesting question.

I am now officially homeless, and this after installing my LaserJet drivers on my own; temp shelter appreciated

— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) September 29, 2017

Setting Your Watch By The Bowels of Philip Seymour Hoffman

Are you okay?-- the indulgent lack of specificity in modern ecumenicalism

Search prevents the least among us from being the dunce in our virtual public spaces, and as such, after Meloni left SVU, whatever his brash liberalism amounts to in social media, the overly long running spin off seemed to become a hollow allegory of itself. Followed so intermittently, Noah’s appearance was a disconcerting element, even if it was designed to give Mariska Hargitay a counterbalance; it is not that outlandish that a daughter of an alcoholic rape victim adopts the son of a pimp, but the series no longer works. It has a hollow knell to it with so much of its core ensemble now absent from the set, and the writers seem to acknowledge this with the season opener. Olivia Benson is slipping once again, but unless there were hints from last season that the equally over stressed dowager missed, the child abuse allegation is just this short of ludicrous, straining credulity, like Gary Webb's suicide after his CIA story collapsed under scrutiny. She became distracted, the child ran into the street, and the inexorable grind of the state against the individual begins again, as with OJ, or the Angleton murder and gambling scene in Houston’s upper crust.

While under no circumstances is the brutal killing of Mrs. Angleton anything worth condoning, her surviving spouse kept beating the system, and no government allows that, none, whether by purportedly unbiased legal processes or not. We’re all at the mercy of mass tolerance, whether Zuckerberg’s or Jack’s, not that either of these uber liberals are involved in day to day postings. I’m rapidly wearying, even if I understand why my long term writing associates utilize Facebook as they do, just as I keep blogging with dismal skepticism, in varying shade overs to cynicism. I have overkilled with tweets, so I am not one to judge the frequency with which my few Facebook connections describe too much too often, but if Gretchen had posted about her medical travail with fibromyalgia ten years ago, or five, I might have taken heart, and persevered. I replied to her weariness with her pain in more detail than some of her relatives, and my muted positives on her behalf were genuine. She married well, to all appearances has produced happy children with a loving husband, but I am about ready to roll out the door of Riverside Presbyterian, despite the tally of what justice, in its pithy abstraction, owes me, despite the condition of my power chair, despite the chasm that will open before me, I am probably going to run, abandoning very nearly everything, even my contributor copies reorganized in the nexus of Karina’s well meaning disruption to my order. Then I’ll be off the radar, soiling myself in the next county. Presbyterian Homes is doing everything in its power to force my compliance with Philadelphia’s welfare system, or set me up for a forced intake to a wheelchair community like Inglis House, and I am not going to allow it. It is that simple.

Unlike Webb, my professional reputation wasn’t destroyed through the pressure of overreach, just bad luck, and my willingness to be scathing, ruining the rudiments of my small crescent of bylines. I can’t take the bullshit that goes on in public housing anymore, and if I cannot take the ignorant vindictiveness of urban poverty with its relentless cruelty destroying my spirit, how much less the relentless human offal of a home for cripples, merciless, huge, the stench of disease permeating its halls. Regardless of my sympathies for a fiery, hard Roman Catholic faith, there is absolutely no dignity in this existence of such vulnerability, and I’ll need a week or so, but I either leave, or fight my way into a convulsive conflict with African Americans and hypocritical white Protestants whom I literally despise with their horrified proprieties. They are the ones abusing me, constantly breaking me down, and it’s just more of the same. If Olivia Benson was an actuality, there is very little probability that she could have aged so well adjusted into her leadership role. Eighteen years is it? Her life of being assaulted and abducted, while more dramatic than my mostly sordid degradation at the hands of violence, would have never left her so well adjusted to take over from her captain, however well intimated these slight hints are at her newly acquired destructive armor, after a fashion. Yeah, it is serial fiction, akin to a comic book, and audience loyalty needs lines of resilient moral constancy, but if I am to recover anything of the woman I once was, described as full of life, I have got to get the fuck out of here, with virtually nothing, even my published work locked away. Nothing more than the blood curdling my veins says I either leave or die, regardless of how Wolf has an actress so solidly typecast put in her papers.

Drums Along The Mohawk

"But we won." --Henry Fonda

I begin to take a dim view of IT technicians as a whole. They should be able to assist me better than they do, whether it’s Geek Squad or PhillyTechGuy or the vendor Tom Cook who did not do what he said he was going to do. These men can walk, they have automobiles. I never stiffed them, and it is always the same game of chicken: I still view myself as a failed scholar. They see a bull dyke in rags, I suppose, one that shares the same urgency as Constance Sumner, but in a different context. I need something else for these last months with my cognitive ability still intact, and if I cannot get it, then mocha bug bran women like building manager Trudy Richardson will have a self-fulfilling prophecy. “We don’t know each other,” she says. Fuck that. She is a nigger fascist as sure as I’m road rage ready to die in authority’s restraints, but if black arrogance has been particular, illegally cruel, on the other end of the spectrum, Caucasians aren’t really giving me appropriate levels of support. Cook has to make a living, but so do I, and I’m in a bit of a bind, one which he claims he can unravel, but he should have done this the first time. I cannot do everything by myself, and though I don’t expect social media to fall over itself coming to my aid, my viewers aren’t of much use either. I mean, I have taken my share of adversity, still forced to live with fringe homosexuals who think 60 style protests is a panacea for institutional medical care, and I’ve taken my share, getting gob smacked like Jody Foster in the insidious opening to The Silence of the Lambs, but I haven’t been devastated by natural disaster (though governmental incompetency may be a sufficient substitute) and should take heart, and work around this obstacle. Except it is my life’s work, and I am still trying to compete in the mainstream, and ta ta, one laptop death takes a fucking month out of my life, when I should be in bed. But my biological rhythms liven between midnight and five am, so I write as if I was still pulling an all nighter for exams. This is my way of being as skeptical of the right as I am of the left. What good is it if no one hears the narrative? 

I cannot claim to have a personal relationship with libertarians. Locally, John you used my name in print with feigned offense, he knows me best, but there is friction between us, as my Roman malevolence truly did widen his eyes, the not cool aging invalid who would delight in guerrilla warfare. If I had the ability to command, there is my solace, in the fanaticism of destruction. In lieu of Apocalypse Now, my father opens his checkbook, but this is tantamount to giving the Ebola virus an aspirin, and I do not see Richard Spencer letting my Machiavellian intellect usurp the niche of his ethnographic conceits, but, absent that personal relationship, tracking men like the muted Tony Stiles and politicos like Austin Petersen interests me. I knew of Austin by name long before social media, and I said to myself, researching him, years ago, so this is a radical, then subsequently discovered this is not the case. Austin isn’t a radical, but my blood lust, that is radical. I am very hard in certain aspects, and agree with Austin’s healthcare privilege view because he is right. All you have to do is observe. Claiming healthcare “rights” obliterates the quality of care issue, and with all medical resources limited as they are, Jimmy Carter’s cancer treatments and McCain’s poor prognosis glioma take away from others. There may be no direct link to my quality of care chain, but nonetheless, it is still a triage of association. Men of stature in 80^th and 90^th decades limit preventative resources for others with more optimal survival, and I may take a swipe at hard policy posts as time allows. That I vaguely recollect Roy Moore's removal from the Alabama bench at all is a mystery.

The Abandon

Can you explain your views? Do you think ADAPT and others shouldn't protest in House/Senate office buildings?

— Kim Nead (@kim_nead) September 25, 2017

I promised Kim Nead, a woman whom I assume to be a Krugman sympathizer, that I would offer her an explanation of my views on predominantly left wing disability protesters. Shall we do a numbered list?
1. Most of them suffer far too much cognitive impairment to understand the crippling ideology of their dependence.
2. Those that used to, like Erik, or Cassie, people whom I've linked to-- you can research them on your own, ultimately derive their own power by unifying the mentally retarded.
3. All humans may do this, but in independent living, dissenters who get ostracized suffer more severe consequences than most. There are startlingly few Title IX violations which lead to murder in the work place. I viewed one such incident at 3M, but in disability culture, once you are driven out, it might as well be an economic execution. This is why I have gone rightward, although the toll I have taken by not holding my hand out for the Commonwealth's astringent mercy has been exacting. I do not deny exhaustion permeates every aspect of my life, at this point, although the state GOP gave me enough advance notice about the young Republican awards in Allentown that I could commit to going and then fail. I know Pittsburgh slightly, Harrisburg a little better, but Pennsylvania is a bizarre colony of origin, and Allentown, other than a recording refrain, my have been a drive through in my younger years.

Flaming Krugman, as I have learned, is no fun. His nasty reputation precedes him, and though I can give as good as he does, it would be a wrestling match with wounds afflicted on both sides, so I mute the extent of my rancor with his obnoxious knowledge acquisition. This is not to say I grasp economic theory. I'm interested, but the mathematical skill needed would strain my failing acuity. His smugness, however, triggers nausea, hostility from other economists who have taught me things, like Dr. Ferguson. I'd personally like to put Niall and Paul in the ring, and back my Scottish bay, if you get the analogy. Here is another: the left justifies itself exterminating an innocent fish, one bred for our pleasure. Nazi gas chamber, if you ask me.

Paul Martel Figments

When I first mentioned Unfaithful on this account many years ago, I had not fully absorbed Adrian Lyne’s emphasis, and the camera’s focus is one which grows fuller over time, even if the script is nothing we haven’t seen before in relation to discontent and betrayal. The exposition truly functions as a literary device, such as when Martinez glances at the knife on his table, briefly considering whether or not he would need it for defense, or the opening wind storm, all of it. We’re being asked why we get set into habits, routines, comforts, and then shatter them for another card in the deck, another card which leads us back to the same interior landscape. Familiarity breeds contempt, and this is what we kill ourselves over when we’re not engaged in killing ourselves due to ideology. Did I get the ending the first time? A pipe dream straight out of Jane Austen’s comedic moral teachings? Not as fully as on a third capture, with the Sumner’s knowledge that the bough was fully splintered, and undone, sitting there at the police station, all that was needed nothing more than a reality crime drama to reenact the reverberating scandal and consequences to follow. But this telescopic focus isn’t reality, so much as an American copy of a French template, something Gere has done before, simply to remind us that perspective, and point of view function like an acid reflux treatment. What was Constance’s trade off? Freedom to breathe, akin to my knowledge that rolling into thin air, away from my hostile building owner, means merely a foreshortening of the inevitable, my work stupidly locked away because I wasn’t careful enough? Didn’t utilize cloud services to best practices? I don’t feel like telephoning Tom Cook, who undoubtedly isn’t going to go out of his way to restore me to my history without feeling inconvenienced.

I just spoke to him and encapsulated the problem. He had another call. Me? I barely have any food, but what difference does that make, as I’m barely eating. Yes, 365 is nice, but I have to relearn some things, and if I do refinance another machine, I’ll have to relearn that, while we’re all busy scoring points, or consoling ourselves through the images of what the perfect bourgeoise life is or isn’t without hunger, tripping through your kitchen in bare feet. Paraplegics may retain ambulatory memories. I never knew them to begin with. He is my age, this Cook. Perhaps I should bathe, throw on a pair of slacks. He may stop by again tomorrow, because my ability to understand telephone voices is in the decline. This I cannot cure, but neither can I compel sources to respond online. I can hear my debt load increase, the one thing which hasn’t changed. Cash registers, storage and retrieval of promissory notes.

The Frantic Movements of House Flies

Mark Sanford has nothing left to lose--Tim Alberta

While we sit here with the left lung elongated like papier mache fracking above the diaphragm, struggling with oxygen in a fetid interior, or waiting for the onset of congestive heart failure, perhaps startled by Commissioner Goodell’s only recently found permissiveness, with a hint of bombastic fraudulence attached, like everything in the adolescence of the American athlete, a vestige of Roman gladiator braggadocio attached, nonetheless, our governing system modeled on the Republic as it is, it is only now, in this financially unsuccessful writer’s last viable years, that she sits here with her insistent feline, reflecting on the incredible entrapment of the pus that has erupted out of her ass since childhood, even my now dying grandmother, in her energetic fifties, helping my mother with my accidents, lower extremities locked in a primitive lower torso exoskeleton I discarded in my teens, would exclaim, “you just don’t quit.” Indeed, my biology is an aberration, an organic mechanism which should never have thrived. In recent months though, the axis has shifted from concern with control to persistent abdominal discomfort, normal or not for post-menopausal tissue in the preliminary stages of final entropy. Perhaps my efforts to salvage my files constructed on 07 software will be a final blow, one with which my physiology will not be able to cope, as I have put too much physical labor into continual reconstruction, though I did not print everything, not having space to insure that physical drafts remain undamaged. We take all this chaotic reality and turn them into constructs, as Adrian Lyne does in his erotic thrillers, but what I am attempting to percolate, now that I have rapidly rushed hot coffee, is we do not seem to do any better for the humanities which build over time. If we utilize the George Smiley method of back tracing, in the work of the great Stendhal, who is the only novelist anyone need ever read, says the dowager from her precipice, it is the erotic sin which triggers devout fervor through contemplation. This is something generally lost to us in the contemporary era. Arguably lost even in monastery or seminary, from what I am able to access-- Julian doesn’t destroy the marriage of Madame Renault. He wakes her up to what loving sensuality means, even if all he wanted was the conquest. She has no choice but to find solace through the post-Reformation Catholicism of its day, as she cannot chase after a penniless peasant scholar who doesn’t have much of a scruple in relation to chastity. Lyne’s early 21^st century parable dispenses with this sentiment, even if all human foibles are present in Unfaithful: jealousy, suspicion, guilt, even the preening growth of being alive due to the sheer pleasure of exotic physicality. I felt this way when I was the Other Woman, though my motives, before the disaster of being pursued by a drooling pig from New York, were different from that of Lane’s driven character. I was not lured in; I was rather in search of a man without fear, and that ferreted out wounded, bored, or unhappy husbands, who left both me as mistress and their wives to pick up the pieces without rippling each other to shreds—rather difficult, as I’ve indicated in the past, not to mention the overlay of Mark Sanford and Chapur. Look at the capital a once promising political star relinquished in the name of desire. Was it worth it? Did he read French literature before we toasted ourselves into non-entities? Just as Lyne asks if his characters deserve the consequences of their deception, the arguments we’re having about fundamental fairness and distribution don’t really change anything, unless it relates to insularity juxtaposed against the tensions of diversity. Unfaithful is unique in another way, as it is unabashedly about the license of white privilege gaming its own destruction. The people of color we glimpse in the movie function as a buffer, more or less.

Hysteria

If I threaten the technician who did the hard drive extraction that isn't going to get me very far, but I'm going to have to call him about debugging, and either or sit here most of this morning trying  to convert my files. I cannot rebuild my publication history from scratch and  expect it not to cost me, as it did moving from Diamond Park to Riverside, as it did with each subsequent computer failure and upgrade; for the time being, my credit card company sailed in, doubling my limit, but this is scant comfort if my accomplishments for the last five years are simply erased. Fault it as you may, but writing has had to become my life. There is nothing else. The deceased Frank Versanti, (or Versante) claimed he was in love with me after he proposed, in monosyllabic fashion, but my interpretation of his enthusiasm was his lewdness was victorious, something which repulsed me, the gluttony written all over his face. His lust to have my asymmetrical breasts to grope wasn't my idea of healthy desire between two middle aged people settling for each other. As much as I tried to go through with it twelve years ago, I couldn't, at 42 to 43, settle for an ape, even if I never quite rescinded my claim on his obligation to me; hence, you'd figure, since I am so emotionally fragile, that I'd be on Amber's side over that of Woods, a fading personality who would take one look at me and imitate the nascent verbal losses of John Irving's Reagan era characters:

Psychic predicted #Democrat lawmaker would be ridiculed by millions. #Genius https://t.co/frxah1mRXu

— James Woods (@RealJamesWoods) September 22, 2017

Instead, I am with the hot headed old man, even rather sympathetic to his usurpation of youthful women. Lauren Southern isn't wrong, after all. The girl inside of us recognizes the snake in the grass. We even like it. My newfound appreciation of James and his caustic bitr is not the flush of a fan many times removed. He is a known quantity, whether or not my warped body could please him sexually. It is merely a clinical question. Could I satisfy a seventy year old man whose name would elevate my stature? I have no idea, but Woods is worth settling for, not an illiterate spic from the Bronx. 

As a technical matter, since I can now write, offline, though be it from scratch, for the moment, I am less fragile than before, but intend to be dead before the Commonwealth forces me into this fortress, despite the gooey social media policy on suicidal outcry. My whole life has amounted to failing against the grip of regimentation on my throat. I know what well balanced libertarians would say: stop feeling sorry, train yourself to keep the appropriate distance from nursing aide swine. Recognize you cannot cure your pain. Okay, but what do you know of 33 years of case management, aggressive senility, housing authority drywall?

Phosphorus Spots

This is the problem with battling a life on whatever entitlement system you can to name. The crisis such as I am having now, these are exceedingly difficult to manage. I have taken a huge hit, over two hundred dollars in additional expenses, with my static life, in an environment which was never one of my own choosing, I can barely nibble any food, remembering my mother coming to Ridley Senior High, where I was parked, as always, in the administrative offices, guidance counselor, perhaps, with the SSI paperwork. I was 16, and had I the benefit of hindsight, to be forthright, I might have stopped my education then and there, with the federal welfare stranglehold. Yesterday, I viewed, come to think of it, one of the last late Law & Order episodes with Waterston and Roache, and the cattish actress who was ADA Connie. The abortion doctor assassination, which, for Wolf's writing team, was powerfully done, in terms of authenticity, and like some of those genetically doomed babies, I should have been allowed to die, instead of incubated, although, even in the incubator, I was supposed to die. Even premature, perhaps it was my destiny, to terrorize ableism. I do not know.

I am still here, of course, but it is too much for me. I may not kill a minority building manager or any of her residents, or a lesbian, or my former supervisor, but I am clinging to the escarpment hidden by rushing waterfalls, and can see my psyche, a spastic psyche, riddled with bullet holes, on some derivative of Thorazine, little more than a maniac, like so many Inglis residents. Yet this L&O episode challenged my extermination of the species as effectively, if not more so, than all the Catholic accounts I follow, and, if I did not know better, Pope Francis might have been tweeting directly to me earlier this morning. For once, this socialist Argentine, of whom I am diffident, reached me as Santo Padre; yet I refuse, like Anne Rice, to flip flop, fall on my knees, and give in to my occasional awareness of a devout fervor. Why? When I did believe, I was too self-conscious to accept all this damned nonsense, the holy spirit, the tongues. I dared to laugh at God, as Umberto Eco raised so dramatically in The Name of the Rose, three years before I ever graced a campus, I laughed at God, and I feel the import of that sacrilegious defiance, and thus force mystery and materialism to co-habituate in my Catholic Atheism. Better to reject divine character than to accept and damn yourself for knowing you can never love it, indeed, hate it, which probably matters little.

This Office 365 download is agonizingly slow, but I threw in the towel  on installing my older 2007 version, and have yet to see if it will take on this expensive, but still ten year old laptop, my feet swollen, tinnitus swirling in my eardrum, powerless, squalid woman, desperate to restore her work, sweating fish oil through her pores. The high school secretary, she had a predication for Sidney Sheldon. I too, find Rage of Angels moves along at a pleasingly taut, climatic pace. Even just sitting here, oblivious to section 202 housing hostilities and jeopardy, I'm suffering, yowling at my poor baby brother for surcease, gratified to engage Gretchen again, even playing along with Facebook humor, I might as well be a writhing succubus: the download is complete, but I have to go to bed, with so little to spare, like a box of food for little kimmy.

Mating Calls

I used to call this Hewlett Packard the old queen, and remain amazed it still works, and that I am not quite insane, but suppose we're getting there, aren't we? All my time, productivity, but I guess it does not matter. I could have worked some, on my Smith Corona. The disk drive for it failed a long time ago, but it still works in both draft mode, with small DOS screen, and as a typewriter, but I didn't move a muscle, barely read, and have to reinstall office, and then see what this latest fuckwit managed to save from the Toshiba, but I cannot win, can I? Just this much ahead on my debt, and I had to waste what little credit I have on a pc tech who has his own ass in arrears. It doesn't take much for many of us to become nothing once again, that quickly, not being savvy enough, like all off you, to just download office for free. 

I am being abused by a relatively new tenant named Dominic. I think he is Italian. He is stupid and belligerent, and I am going to have to file a harassment complaint, which will get me a transfer, but I do not know how much worse despair can get: I am near the end of what little functional independence I have, and the story of my adult life, from the age of 23 forward, is abuse in buildings managed by this senior living corporation. I feel perfectly justified in engaging in terroristic violence against Presbyterian Homes. Can I? No. Would I? Yes, so by all means, report me if you wish, but their contract with HUD needs to be severed.

33 years of my life, and no, I can not fault traditional academic instructors, even though Jerry was right. I should have never transferred to the city. But I had no idea Philadelphia was going to pulverize me to the extent it has. Dominic's issue? Who knows. He is sick, uncouth, thinks he is more street wise than he is, and singled me out, I can only surmise, because the word on me is that I am a skeevy loudmouth. He looks like my Uncle Thomas's more brutish younger brother, bald with a black grey  ring of hair just above the ear. I do not care that he doesn't like me. It is the public aggression he displays. Taking it from niggers is one thing, but a Broad Street bully is another, and the company is going to get waves because he is interfering in my ability to do normal things in public. Talk on the phone, or with the technician. It is impossible for him to ignore me, I mean impossible, and if I drag the police into it, what can they do? A restraining order isn't going to get a mentally ill cancer patient to cease and desist. 33 years, and I still believe I can be competitive in the marketplace.

I am literally ready to roll out the damn door and find a place to die, and surely, I have the strength I have to carry like Swarzenegger, to pull myself up despite a neutron star barbel on my sternum. I am not far away from threatening this bastard's life. It is a little more than that. Online access vulnerability is nearly as crippling as my brain damage. Since I sustain few true friendships, let alone able to consider myself salable to Viagra men, I have no idea what keeps me alive. Curiously, however, my commode transfers are more confident, as if I'm actually returning to work.

Engorged Twilights of Dirty Old Men

Lillian Rogers was an old black woman long before I allowed Terri Way to blindside me into coming to Riverside Presbyterian. She was one of the last of the original tenants to have lived here, had no family to speak of, and insisted that people cared about me, which is something of a misnomer. If people truly cared, by the standards of the country I live in, I would have had justice, instead of majority discrimination, and then, relentless persecution, but I cannot fault a simple minded Bible thumper for this, one who role played an artificial family for herself. Nightline produced a segment on this, a social construct story, supposedly illuminating how the oppressed fill in the gaps, while the Liberty On The Rocks chapter is all over the place, dancing in Media, drinking on Passyunk Avenue, and I am stressing about not snapping at another technician whom I do not trust, aging out of relevance, an incongruity in a suburban dance club even if I wasn’t approaching the emaciation of a sixtieth decade, knowing no more than any active reporter about Tamblyn’s veracity over and above that of Woods. I know nothing about either celebrity. I recognize one, obviously, through television syndication, and the little more I’ve learned since suggests a compatibility of rebellion. In the case of Woods, this draws in The Hollywood Reporter. For the quadriplegic, it draws the cruelty of objectification, from government civil servants, and one unfortunate police officer, which no doubt earns confusion from liberals who want to feel my pain: I virtually ignore Tamblyn’s account, despite the preponderance of the evidence in her favor, and joined instead with Woods 800,000 minions, liking five or more of his tweets. Why is this? Because my own sex augmented my trauma once too often, despite the monstrosity of my mother’s co-dependency lovers and her dysfunctional, abusive, horse shooting second husband. Even the mixed race paraprofessional who hit on me has her side of the story, probably believing she was offering succor to an invalid otherwise discarded, and you do, after all, discard, don’t you, against the anguish I balance on the wire, as daring as any circus daredevil, but for the sturdiest of account followers paying attention, or you shrug, not seeing any alternatives in the choices with which I am faced, except to still enjoy my coffee while I can, and disagreeing with Jacob Sullum about Woods confusion with legality of consent: we expect law enforcement to police sexual standards. Any SVU recycling would tell us that, while my unfortunate foster cat purrs on my hip, and our moments move with lightning speed. I booted the ever vivacious and slightly autistic Jeffrey F Tucker off my feed. He is a good columnist, but I have nothing more to gain from his tutorials to young turks. I’m the anti-tutorial, the fuck you tutorial, figuring I have to change my approach if I have any hope left towards future commissions. If Tom the equally stressed site visit technician cannot restore my files, the lacuna between the late Lillian Rogers and I is a matter of degree, as I exist in the press, lack of collected whole notwithstanding. If I can stop him, however, I may move Cook’s visit up. Starvation diet has deflated the strength of my sail.

Et tu?

Even our rodent cousins despise us, but this report raises questions as well. Rats can be aggressive but a swarm attack, and why couldn't the girl cry out? I hate rodents, but will fight, if cornered. European socialism at its finest.

The Melnick Revolt Trigger

"There are dark forces at work here." Ian Anthony Dale

To deal a straight material hand this morning, lets revert back to anti-depressants, and assume, amid all the marvelous psychiatric diagnostic classifications available, that a turn of the century adjustment disorder graduated into traumatic stress, triggered deliberately by minorities trained to cordon off geriatric dementia, again, not the best environment to throw in formerly matriculated spastics burdened with quadriplegia. If I go on with this language, a medical textbook recruiter might take another look at my Linked profile, however ambivalent a disability journalist might be in that regard. Anti-depressants are used for more than serotonin regulation, and my skepticism about them doesn't apply to all treatment regimes, but when my mother's sister could talk over my head and exclaim, "that's better," when I was on that turn of the century script, for whom did the better refer? Not being able bodied, the drugs impaired physical ability to function, and cured nothing, however much my dead ex pig of almost husband observed, before he died, that I was getting worse. Frank did not move in here with his commanding army officer, whom he hated (yes, hated, I know, but he is dead and I won't get into it), but I am asked, by society, to grin and bear it every time a facetious transsexual, with whom I go way back, sits outside, its cognitive awareness diminished, smoking a cigarette, knowing what I know, the law letting him off, but not letting me off, why exactly? Because I am angry at how often corruption has destroyed my intellectual potential, and just like other Americans, I need a change of environment, and cannot effect it. Regardless of my condition, regardless of dimming economic prospects, regardless of Google's loving playfulness juxtaposed by its power, which I have nothing against, but have derived little trickle down benefit as a result (what possible use is Ad Words to me if all I am doing is paying into the company's services, again, this was me lacking the confidence not to purchase the campaign), I should be able to relocate, as a citizen of this ferrous republic, and cannot do it without facing what most consider irrational risk. I don't eschew Google's corporate muscle; its progressive proselytizing, that is another matter.

Enter in Danielle Melnick, making use of her ability to be Jack McCoy's intellectual equal, not always adversarial, in Dick Wolf's transformation of American crime dramas, or as the leader of the community Grimes managed to wreak havoc upon, perhaps inadvertently. That was as far as my local affiliate took me into The Walking Dead, but it was enough, as no one can withstand that much hell, that often. In Salvation, she is a stand in for what was expected to be the epitome of sexual equality. As Wiki indicates that the limited summer series was under development in 13, I doubt those who took it off the drawing board anticipated Trump, so in this slow burning coup in a complex asteroid disaster tale, one can infer that Melnick's very brief cameo, dying in a planned televised speech, was the industry's platitudes for girls, as "President McKenzie" was poisoned to death. Boys will be boys, in the grand scheme of things.


Fish oil, as my naturally occurring mood stabilizer of choice, seems to work as long as the continence issues can be managed. The dowager can feel, and function, on 2400 milliliters daily, taken with an actual fish diet. Again, this is expensive, but on limited evidence, seems to be more than a placebo effect. I only feel better, as of this writing, because I'm stocked, saturated myself with salmon, and hoping, fingers crossed, that I can make it to the Libertarian block party later today. If I do not take a bus, maybe I can spring the taxi. But I wish some of you could see the sum total. It is bad enough, being what I am. What Philadelphia has perpetrated on me, because I wanted independence, has been just short of too excruciating. Everyone needs a support system. A 56 year old shouldn't have to grope in the dark, treading in place solely due to inertia of the paradigms long set into place for relegation.

April Fools

"No, with a prince."-- Catherine Devenuve, full bloom

I have been awake since about seven thirty Thursday evening, simply waiting for physiology to realign, and I am going to have to drive the Jazzy under the shower head fairly soon. It is risky, given that I have been lumbering in poor generic power chair technology with a short in its electric system for nearly three years, trying to upgrade, but it is less risky than a park near hot steam while I risk the old bathing chair, even though I should do things properly. My latest bad judgment was leaving Hahnemann for the ambulatory practice, in 14. I still have no new chair, and if I had the money, I'd skip the red tape and buy my own, but I'd be difficult about the fit, to get it right. But what are municipal progressives worried about? Not its marginalized underclass, but linking the commemoration of the Rizzo family to Charlottesville, because the city of brotherly love is a proverbial backwater, always has been, and I am wasting my data to burst out into tears. Frank and Joseph Rizzo have nothing to do with Bannon and Breitbart, and Trump's roiling rise, and Jim Kenney is old enough to know better. The Rizzos have a direct link to my family, and I don't have enough bullets through the heart. Now this. All evening, not to work, just to fight extraordinary dislocation pain, fight mild vertigo, indigestion, and take another bullet to the heart:

I cannot go on with 50 tweets but you are a local patrician; help me; not right to do to family!

— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) September 8, 2017

The outcry here to our prominent local anchor is very real. I know Joe Rizzo's daughter. I stood on Broad Street for Frank's funeral procession, and my father received a commendation for rescuing the late mayor in an emergency fire, and I am going to find and buy that article. I am not going to let this legacy be cheaply besmirched without a fight, so help me God. And Jim Gardner knows this too. He knows what utter folly this is, the preening local celebrity insider who occasionally flaunts his access to the local political scene. He is a show horse, whether or not also a phony, but his living memory parallels mine, and a well placed word from him about this utter nonsense would carry weight, not that he would do it for the sake of my distress. The extreme right may not want the burden I represent, but if the left isn't careful, I may become the most unique aberration yet. I disliked Michael Nutter, but at least he was a defined scold. Kenney is the most ineffectual executive this city has had since Wilson Goode.

A declaration of war.

Mouse Cadaver Double Bound

The human body is very dirty. -- Arthur Hill

I allowed myself to get wrapped up in the plot of Salvation without applying any critical rigor to the performances, and now that well know speculative futurist actors are involved in the coming denouement, the intensity of the dystopian aspect wanes: at first, I thought the screen writers guild were going to spin an ironic manipulation of the deep state conspiracies made so prevalent in the digital age-- and to clear something up, taking the JFK, RFK, and MLK assassinations in sequence, it is difficult not to see these killings as a low grade coup. It is the reasoning behind it which is elusive, but fortunately, I do not have the energy to delve into bootlegger class graft and a America's preeminent, partially fraudulent, minority saint. Salvation comes off as a pre-processed microwaveable dinner. Finnigan, at least initially, was taxed with the most complex delivery, but this has since radiated outward among the ensemble. Do I appreciate Cabrera, Rowe and Dale?

I haven't penetrated that deeply, while the pacing ensures mainly irrelevant plaudits, like a gay Secretary of State on the run. I missed the Russian Federation on "alert" episode, but caught enough in play back to piece together the subsequent stand down. What interests me is the antecedents, the analogue era posited doom of The Satan Bug, where Dana Andrews, the wooden war era bean counter, was perfectly cast, and The Andromeda Strain, which is one of my favorite science fiction films of all time, precisely due to its rigorous realism. The Andromeda Strain doesn't condescend to its audience, uses real science, and if it didn't predict AIDS paranoia in the black community, it certainly anticipated the fact that MRSA will one day make the achievements of western medicine insignificant, because it will wipe us out, centralized hospital model or the strategic mobility of doctors without borders notwithstanding. Uber-wealth will of course hang on, as it always does, but we are too many not to hit an alarming new mortality rate. I am not faulting any system or ideology, just acknowledging reality. Collectivism and self interest, in our species, never quite balances without calamity.

The only tranquil moments I had under Presby's management-- which, for those of you who do not know, has been my life long rental agent, was when I was still matriculated as a student. In those days, I did not believe that I was going to undergo a lifetime of conflict, persecution, but now, having gone through mortal combat, biology is picking up where the paradigm left off, and I am beginning to feel grim. Poetry, non-fiction, and half-glazed deadlines aren't enough for me, and I know the institutional hell I will face, unlike you. Work, stop complaining. I know, but I cannot be amicable burning my cell phone battery begging for legal representation feeling like this, my bad hip like embossed root canal. I printed up the forms I need to file with the Human Relations Commission, but I am not so sanguine, whether Earle's title with them is now more honorary than active. Kimmy hunted around the trash bag, looking for her prize. It is not pleasant, using broken reachers to carefully dispose of these little templates. Remarkable, from mice came the very carnivores who dispense of them like gumballs. Crichton's death did have a quality of suddenness. Unfortunate, because his rebuttals had the force to make progressives back down.

Irma's Vagaries In the Ligaments

She tried to make them fly.-- the author

When the dowager was parked at her Widener University desk, much as she is now, in a more dilapidated fashion, still sitting at Tom Reid's fob off hand painted excuse of a desk which should have been traded in long ago, she pounded out an angry story about a home invasion with a female victim who turned the tables on her attacker. The exact date of the story's creation is beyond memory, though it must have been in my later semesters, around 1985. It is a revenge fantasy, far more violent than the home invasion I defeated-- and that defeat really hinged on Brandon's conscience. It is difficult for me to type his name, but as I have always been a deft reader of character, he was as much afraid of what he was doing as I was in fear of my life, and this, really, aside from not being desperate enough to use an old Everest & Jennings power chair, motor pulley threaded to the back wheel with a rubber trim. I do not have the exact term for it, but it was designed much like a bicycle chain links the pedal rotary to the back tire. I was afraid, if I had tried to hurt him, that he'd topple me over or worse. Once he dragged me to my bedroom, Oliver following, that was a trigger. I fought, screamed, won, and in fact, I was screaming with such ferocity I did not realize I was the victor. My rapid, brutal little piece was never meant to anticipate my rather languorous spiral of a brutal womanhood.

During the blizzard of 1996, my landline phone rang in the dead of winter with a female editor asking if the piece was still available. 11 years, and I get a call in a blizzard, with no food in the kitchenette, to be queried by an editor of Blood & Flesh. She liked how I depicted violence against women, and then, in one of those quirks of literary endeavor, this same female editor postcarded that the team had decided to print its last issue and changed her mind, which has seemingly cursed this piece for life. I cannot get rid of it, and if I revise it to any substantial degree, then it becomes an old woman's makeover, as opposed to a university student's subconscious realization that she was a lifelong target of misogynist hatred. Writing it, strange as this may sound, was an interior mechanism to sublimate my undercurrent of hate for Jerry. I know this isn't fair, and the man saw something in me he encouraged to succeed, but my aggrandizement of his intellectual mania had a latent hostility attached to it, assigning blame to the blameless. It wasn't this unfortunate instructor's job to protect me from my mother's abuses--kill her lovers or my stepfather, just as my father, too, never stepped in to eliminate the heinous savagery embedded in my family history:

Opinion | Something is seriously off about this president https://t.co/iyFk6DEfta

— Jennifer Rubin (@JRubinBlogger) September 4, 2017

And if this is, psychologically, what I am searching for in Trump's belligerence, I suppose I am bound to be disappointed: I do agree with his critics that he has a propensity to diminish his supporters, like Priebus, and I have no idea why Sessions became a target of the mogul's ire. I do not track Sessions with the same avidity I have paid to other attorney generals, and cannot offer anything about his apparent retrenchment of Order, with capital O, but he had a reason to recuse himself from Probe Russia, which, at the end of the day, will be more or less reveal itself as dirty money, and big deal. I have been a good girl most of my life, but a Mexican lawyer and my building manager want my head on a platter because I am weary of institutional corruption corroding my soul with ferrous iron, but I really do not read some of El Presidente's twitter rhetoric the way Rubin or his other prominent detractors do, particularly when it comes to North Korea. The world cannot be held hostage by Kim Jong Un's diseased xenophobic maneuvers forever, even if war in the South Pacific will invariably be a game changer. We wouldn't be able to compartmentalize it as easily as Afghanistan, and depending on how it happens, if it happens, the health of many a body politic is at risk, while I calculate how to give notice as a form of sanity, teaching minorities a lesson about illegal collusion, at my expense.

Digitalis

This is all I know, so far: AdSense, which is Shareaholic's derivative model, is a fee for profit advertising service. The account holder pays a fee, and receives a pay out for every 10 dollar accrual. I am far less clear about Ad Words, other than I have agreed to pay Google for the clicks. What the dowager gets out of it, as an improvised individual desperate upon desperate for a needed change, is entirely unknown. I can afford to allow the search giant to profiteer off my posts for one billing, and if I get nothing, then I'll cancel the campaign. but I am telling Google publicly, right now, that I may have softened my vehemence decibel, but my anger will never be entirely diminished. Everyone has a side, spanning the gamut, from Jewish supervisors to building managers, but I have 33 years of a hostile environment with exactly the same landlord under which I am a crime victim, repetitively. For those of you with better mobility, you believe you could live with this without disparagement?
Better than a shelter? Not by all that much, as I've dealt with shelter clients at Project Share, and it seems to make little difference whose rod is on their spine, the housing authority or the shelter managers. In addition to which, and this is my failure, alone, I let spend down methodologies evaporate my savings, savings which, if I do survive past 65, I needed. I literally have nothing, bar one, I frightened Presby's corporate office with the liability I have on them. That's it, that, and my 50,000 dollar education which garnished me a return somewhere in the neighborhood of 80k before taxes, roughly estimated. 

There is no discernible difference to this valiantly active domain, not yet, but the masses love the virtue of patience.

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Update: this was a failure of comprehension. No more ad words. The charge will be insubstantial. Notice all the help I am getting attempting to monetize my work, sigh.

Crohn's Management: One

It is interesting that The Washington Post Volokh Conspiracy series contributor Jane Bambauer explains claim liberty First Amendment rights just as I am seriously beginning to wonder about all the penalties invoked on half baked academics, and getting my ass realigned by either playful or stark libertarian Caucasians who would probably prefer I go away and play kiss and make up with reasonable accommodation bromides. What Bambauer has achieved in explicating her studies is an example of what I want to do, not as it pertains to constitutional law, but on something. I thought I was capable of work at her level, and so did others, but hypothetically, had I attained a Harvard degree, been peer to Ross and Niall Ferguson, would things have been any different? Zuckerberg, his backers, like rich homosexual nutcases, Google, its ruthless efficiency paradigm rather belling its feel the love effusiveness, Microsoft, Silicon Valley gargantuanism birthed a monster, after a fashion, and I do not know why, following in Bambauer's footsteps as an expert in something that I accomplished matters, particularly as I am angry enough to court violence. I would not, like the alt.right, of late, duck for police protection. I'd go down with a roar that would have deafened our 43rd president, on that carrier. Many on the left would see that as a pathology at war with its finer essence, but what is it, exactly, I think I can repair any better than Ann Coulter modal grammars, or Ross'es superciliousness?  We all have a prescription, and can turn thence immediately to lower brow media, like this, as a reminder of our ground game. I am stuck on Race Street, with my past shoveled in my face daily, with a now irrelevant, once prominent, corrupt transsexual who sourced my very first article, black males who threaten and verbally lacerate me, seventy year old and plus seniors who have tried to get me evicted since I moved in, and yet I persist with some sort of belief, if I can climb back, become, miraculously, a CATO fellow, then this justifies the level of my rage in poverty and failure. Dream on. 

Rise of the Platypus

The law doesn't always provide justice. Meloni,ever reliable in summation

I have the same weakness as an active journalist, which at present is a tenuous bracket, due to the fact that my one successful pitch since spring sits in Hugo's Parisian catacombs, gears linked in permanent coitus, my mind looking at puzzle pieces, not particularly desirous of the Defense Department's attention, as does Bennet the menace. As to the DOD, I may actually type out my questions before I start dialing federal area codes. I do not begrudge old hands like Will; don't think that. Nor am I trying to rescue the Trump Administration: I got a little pissed with lax semantics that hit the social media trend curve, and although not quite satisfied with my end product, toggling the worth of rousing an old source if I expand my length, there is an intrinsic flaw in Will's reasoning, and I am trying to illuminate that.
If it eases Jeffrey Tucker's mind, which could be queer, or slightly autistic, I went for paying markets as well, the wise editors who know better than to smart aleck their response, not just The Freeman. Another loaf on the back shelf, or what, not sure, but I will not lengthen it this morning, I doubt, or trouble Nick Gillespie's fiefdom just yet, since I believe I found a way into a longer form about First Amendment nihilism which has been chewing at me for a lengthier time than just the latest shaming or riled Twitter protest. I may also have to walk back, in my expectedly ignored invite to Nick to connect, that I would support Reason indefinitely, interesting as it may be that my poverty played a small part in Stossel's contract. Reason is not only a little too liberal, it is hurried, kinetic, dashing here and here, much like the state of California, an important component territory of American power, to be sure, but this online dominance of Frisco psychology, juxtaposed with New York's offended blue nose progeniture disavowing one of its own, pitted against once energetic authoritarians like Guilliani, who rise with near heroism, then invariably slam dunk into disgrace. failed expectations being the nature of the human condition. The Freeman, in libertarian terms, has a better vitality than Reason, even if we’re all somewhat subliminally aware of what Lucinda Chambers, formerly of Vogue’s UK division, voiced with certain observational veracity without any innovative replacement in sight: magazines are increasingly irrelevant, meaning distinction, in diction and style. There are no more Winchells, and although television formatted Cronkite as Winchell in a video medium, this has long been waning into the diminutive, showhorse anchors. I’ve had a bit of luck in both vocational and professional oscillations as a writer: half creative scholar, half journalist. It hasn’t been without moments, or appreciative response, but my 60th decade is in sight, and I do not have the support of colleagues or editorial staff, exception being Robert’s introduction to my slim, rather jouneyman’s aggregation of work, and my now vanished review of his collection. Is this all there is? 

Coffee and Continence: Two

I often have to pause my life for a minute — whether that’s driving down the sidewalk, using my laptop, or eating a meal--my alma mater.

Whenever a writer prefers to sit around and pontificate, instead of working, it signifies sirens of calamity in the background, which actually aren't that dire: I wrote a response to George Will's rather ingenious attack on Trump's willful ignorance, forced myself to find a conclusion, hit the ground with six hundred words, and no one is happy. I have to retool it for other markets I've looked at, fairly certain of ones that would spit in my face, aware of the timelessness issue, and would like to turn the crusty baseball enthusiast upside his head and shake his premium express credit cards out of his pockets, also aware, that if I take these insider dirty laundry issues too far, I possibly wind up black balled. To a certain extent, I am already there, of course. Josie Byzek may not have closed her twitter account because of how often she is cited in Disability in Entertainment Arts, but it is safe to say, I'll never go home again. All I want to know is why I was frozen out of New Mobility. My feature, with intimations of Damore's fate, was controversial, but Tim Gilmer still included me on his contributors. The fat lady hadn't sung, as yet. By the same token, the periodical is very limited, insular in scope, and of little help to me. The only thing I can force upon the United Spinal Association is trouble, but I have larger behemoths in the scope, hence, I have to live with the rancor, or push a point with no real justifiable outcome, but what I want Josie to see is her rationalizations about ambulatory male ignorance in no way protected me, despite regulatory schematics, from paraprofessional abuse, from section 202's regimented discrimination. Does she like it, being a lesbian, that in the dark net of attendant care, so many helpless to defend themselves become enslaved to predatory control? I cannot shield myself from its likely recurrence forever. This, supposedly, was the point of Precious's author, this nothing we can do attitude, despite all our industrious legal generation.

Bambauer cleared up a contextual issue for me, in part, and this is how it works, but not really. Google Blogger should suspend me. Twitter too, and authority should force me into compliance, and I suffer say another eight years, until terminal issue discloses itself, or I can take up my little plan and try beating the odds, or go on, wrangle the system for the joy juice that will not force a lethal reaction. Difficult to do with cerebral palsy.


Drexel University is not that well known to me, but well known enough to be intuited that it's little league academics, a bit spartan, perhaps afflicted with uncertainty, and in the larger societal context, George may have survived employee termination, where Lisa did not, because he was white, angry leftist. In contrast, viewers saw Tucker at war with a paranoid minority in Durden, and echoes of the Black Panthers may have resonated. In real time, these issues are about group dynamics, and less about theory, like claims liberty. This is a contextual issue, our faith in an institutional judiciary. It punished Brandon Phillips, my assaulter, but this did nothing for me. It also pushed back against an unscrupulous landlord, one which thrives on a socialist subsidized federalism, dear libertarian friends, but I live in terror, nonetheless, after years of conflict. Yes, I have a choice: go homeless, bully the same old intake system into emergency relocation, but a real genuine legal fight is probably going to take 24 months. For what? Do I presume more affluence? Support him or not, (I am in the middle, hoping he will hurt progressives who failed me), Trump is a symptom; he is not a proximate cause. Some of my longest online associates have made me diffident because of well worn beatnik cosmetic protests that really cannot unravel poverty entrapment.