The
European woman who I reference here, with my minimal Italian catch phrases, and
here,
in my otherwise harmless effort at ingratiating camaraderie, blocked me for my
attempt at middlebrow kindness, and yes, I have been sling-backing twitter long
enough to distance myself from over-heating, but still, I meant no harm and was
trying to be a kindred spirit.
😎@Svetulja15 Ciao! Jozanny <___mio mal
My archeological dip shits on this account have nothing to
do with her, or forming an attempted rapport with those still residing in my
generational homeland, and I wish her well, but we cannot always remain immune
from such slams. I am not really into Vincent D’Onofrio’s fireside chats with
his followers, to utilize him as an example. He seemed a little too into it
somehow, with his tweets, and got burned. As a consequence of being made a
fool, he turned his social media account over to a manager, and I rather
silently went poof: I can conceivably see a day where I can write an essay
about Goren and the law’s relationship to disability and crime, but editors
were created to give their writers press passes, if I ever get myself out from
under this dip shit, piling as it does. D’Onofrio didn’t seem able to manufacture
the requisite coolness, whereas I’m in the middle. I can simply be analytical,
but still let my hair down now and then, however the “numbers game” of social
media twists our heads. I am not the only writer of such unfortunate
circumstances. Alessandro Manzoni wound up suffering from a nervous condition
after The Betrothed gave us the
modern historical novel. Bulgakov is known for one work, and he burned The Master and Margarita, then rewrote
it from memory, (I can do no such thing with my works, which Riverside has
repeatedly placed at risk.) We cannot all plot a book a year, as Oates does,
though I think she has taken “publish or perish” so literally as to have
diluted her power, and I simply hate Stephen King, to let the cripple in me be
true to herself. King is not the worst fantasist, by far, but most of his
output is dreck, and even at his best, his motifs are infantile. The Stand, for a nearly hysterical work
about the collapse of civilization in the US, turns out just to be a retelling
of the Resurrection through King’s sympathies for white trash working class. I
prefer puking to treating him with respect, as I’ve had my fill of white trash
mentality of late. Rather than pivot it in on the screw, giving you a two page
post, my broken spirit worms its way to bed. We’ll pick up.
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