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.