"I couldn't help but feel sorry for him."-- Teddy Bear, Zone Blanche
Though I have not been overly persistent on the matter, once a year I text message Thomas Paine of True Pundit about working for him, and have a sustained interest in learning his true identity. Speculation that he is a former federal agent or DOJ official may spring from how he tweets to Eric Holder and the FBI, and makes sense except for the tagline on his account, which contravenes the notion of authority figure, despite the fact award winning journalists necessarily have good investigative skills. Given the unraveling of the Bureau under Trump, and Mueller's rather serious blow in revenge, raiding Cohen's offices, my interest has intensified, and my approach may be blockheaded, given that he is a Patreon content creator. I may simply not understand how to join True Pundit, or other aggregators of their type. Beneath the surface of everything I have been writing about, being steamrolled and hamstrung by welfare, the freeze of my most important content in Office 7 wps files, and eclipsing my independence by submitting myself to a nursing aide from whom I am deriving sexual comfort--trust me when I say this is never where I wanted to be, and I had something of a serious argument with the man this afternoon, which resolved little, other than the knowledge that I'm falling in love with an intellectual inferior for the reason these things always occur within the subculture of broken bodies. It has ensnared me too finally, this regression to a caregiver, though to some degree, it always has, as I am panicked about the restoration of some professional function. The sheer intensity of how aroused I've been within this last week hasn't helped in my progression towards troubleshooting my issues.
This is what has been drawing me back to persistent vegetative states. The Criminal Intent episode Conscience is comparable to the Zone Blanche pilot, in which viewers are tricked into corresponding shots of the forest and the evidence on the boy's body as being supernaturally linked. Then the reality is exposed. A mother cannot accept that her son's condition came about as the result of being falsely accused of rape, and drags him through the soil on a nightly basis in an attempt to reverse his all but successful suicide. Shawn doesn't want me to wind up the same way, and though my family might not share this perspective, his strategism to help me see I'm still a living woman both worked and backfired, and now we're in a gray zone of almost lovers, though I've said some terrible things about my attitude on interracial fondling of this sort. I wanted him to see what I'd made myself. He asked if I truly reduced him to these racial terms, and when I'm in his arms I don't, but those arms are not the real world with its social stratification. Paine believes the raid on Cohen is deep state at its worst, an attempt by the meritocracy to disassemble Trumpian populism, and the skeptic within me has concurred in silence. Shattering lawyer client privilege due to speculative hush money is a big deal, as we of a certain generation wade toward minimal awareness. I published one scoop in my lifetime, and now I have to consider it a privilege that I'm limited to merely writing a post a night, as opposed to pitching. If I truly want a psychic separation between me and my nurse, I can do it without firing him, merely by treating him like a servant, and dimming the dial on the scent of his testosterone, politely asking him to respect my space, fading into a routine which in and of itself has the beat of a respirator in an atmosphere deliberately created to stoke our paranoid fantasies.
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