Even
though the majority frame it this way, and this includes me, and Blogger, in my
antipodean merger of aggression and trolling and gleefully rationalized spree
killing, mourning that I shall never have the luxury of splitting Richardson’s
skull open before disappearing into the dusk: the nigger with her protruding
frog eyes and buck teeth conniving, she has beaten me. She contracted my father
and his sister into hiring a cleaning service which wiped out my command of my
domain. I did give my notice, but it is extreme duress not to have any control
of my own space, and in a power chair in which my strength has been wasted. I
cannot use this bucket seat for anything else but driving myself around, with
emaciated ligaments screaming at me in pain to quit. I’m crying in small
episodes, revealing my darker side to this sumo wrestler Muslim I lose in 13
days. She is a stupid fat bitch, hurting and bruising me up, and this is the
dues I’ve paid to the Obama Administration. I cannot be ugly with the stupid
fat Muslim without generating more crisis. It’s Barry Levinson, it’s Oz, at a
pace more malingering and cruel, only slower. My only crime: getting
overwhelmed with poor central planning and bad nutrition, living past 55. I
might as well be nigger prag (not that I’ve translated the slang for prison
rape) not that anyone is fool enough to engage in domestic insurrection for me.
The joke is orthopedic medicine and disability activism hasn’t tortured me enough:
the ambulatory majority, applying brute force, telling me to adapt, has
decimated my strength, and when you’re bowed down in concentric circles, in
such a fashion, the deployment of free speech, advocating for men like Craig Brittain only illustrates the fact that aligning myself to the far right hasn’t
deregulated me into a safe haven. I messaged Craig once after Twitter allowed
him to return. Could he pick me up at the Texas border? Dead serious, I did not
persist, and no libertarian has truly befriended me. Suicide, or regimented
agony until I careen into the inevitable death spiral, digital connections have
left me on my own. Not that it was my right to impose on Mark, across the pond,
or even Craig, but I was looking for an individualist willing to at least
partially take on the burden I represented, they themselves not realizing,
Craig, particularly, that companies are not beholden to the First Amendment.
Jack has the perfect right to give Twitter the personality of a smore, and
Google can shut me down for my embrace of violence as part of the simian psyche
out of which we evolved, though in my case, it is more for an agenda than indiscriminate
mayhem. It is now amusing that I was willing to take a ban for a cautious
oddball who dumped my account despite my loyalty. What does it matter now? My anus,
urethra, every bit of my biology weakened. Nine weeks, a cacophony of bitches
telling me this is how it has to be, unless I have the strength for poison, if
I haven’t waited too long.
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