"Even though we ain't got money," -- a lyric from my era
New Zealand is a strange idyll, for my two cents, although character tests aren't that far removed from meeting the financial requirements for condominium ownership; the island's exotic sensibility manifests readily in the disappointing genesis story Z for Zachariah. I see what Seitz sees and raise no objection. The pristine cleanliness of both characters and scenery was less troubling than the consequences of Margot Robbie's choice leading to dramatic abruptness. The conclusion lands with an unsatisfactory thud, though private property is still a relevant concern. It is the girl's house, her chapel, her boredom in such a pastoral landscape, while I've been growling like a rabid animal in leg irons since Gretchen and Robert and I were first introduced in Speakeasy. The nurse, whom I shall not identify, said the wrong thing, and I threw a tantrum, with only the child-like Muslim urging me to stay strong; to my mindset, this means telling these socialist bitches to get the fuck out of my life. I can, and I may, if my death dance with Mike leads to a modification I can live with for a year. Yes. A year, which certain segments of the wheelchair community comprehend, a year for a chair I did not pursue strongly enough in 2014, though it may have been 2016, as I did not have issues with the Jazzy until a year after the P-200 expired, and the payment being exacted now is too much. No good choices, only bad to worse, with all those around me drowning in debt, urging me to go join the parade tomorrow, but like Jerry of long ago lecturing on his own triggers, if I was overwhelmed by the only super faggot I over obsessed (not the only semi-exiled fan), how much more so for a Super Bowl parade of an estimated two million. I'm only a casual observer, subsumed by a welfare state which is now punishing me.
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