The Wasp Woman

"I had to do that."-- Susan Cabot in her final film

While I was pondering the lesson of Alison, realizing I never had that I never had the will such as that, the will to optimize for positive outcomes even without the benefit of being stabbed 37 times and left for dead in a gaming reserve, I chanced upon NBC's Reverie by accident. As of this writing, ZapIt no longer provides me with a local programming guide, and in my spastic inefficient manner, I now bounce from network to network when my nose isn't buried in Prime, wondering when, if ever, I will simply sit and read again quietly. Was it by sheer coincidence I caught episode 6, "Pas de Deux", with a paraplegic dancer in a rather disembodied atmosphere? I decided then and there to ditch the marginally better medical drama Code Black for Shahi's winsome, wounded, Marla, downloaded the NBC app, and with the pilot under my belt, have three of ten episodes viewed, as uncertain as published critics how unwitting persons of interest can be tricked into entering Reverie with interrogators without the command prompt, mindful that Hollywood's depictions of virtual reality are nothing new, just more prevalent, closer to the cutting edge, unlike Tron, which was a video game inside. Part of my frustration with the standard medical serial is audiences are cued to marvel at doctors as superheroes, when we all know this is mainly the furthermost thing from the truth. Care is a variance, and Reverie is more accurate than most about institutional processes destroying the individual character. Pilar's life as a cancer patient is ruthless and barren, and Marla's rescue of her in the turbulent Chile of 1973 is more pyrrhic than cathartic, just as doctors cannot do anything for my primary condition, or its secondary symptoms, until my immune system gives way to my now severely limited control. So my energies to restore my published history move at a monolithic pace, only in part due to the paraprofessional and his wretched daytime television. The discomfort I experience in this new model Quantum is more systemic than the old models which have preceded it, and I have taken inordinate droughts behaving like Tim Mccarthy's bludgeoned character in Remainder, a novel Amazon reminds me I purchased in 2010 of all my approximate 630 electronic titles, this personal narrator marginalized into apathetic numbness seems to be overtaking me with the prevalence of Marla's new hallucinatory uncertainty.
The paragraphs I lost on the day of Frank Versante's death are few. I pitched them to Quartz perhaps a year and a half back, looking for clues as to my original coffee piece path. Did I make sense to the editors? I don't know. They were polite, as always, but this reconstruction is catastrophic, unseen by anyone, even Galahad, whom I've ceased to reference. I have to breathe, despite the breadth of my digital losses, including my penny articles. I already know Blogger will not protect this account should I not memorialize it. Perhaps I should have anticipated this now violently sterile way of life, but I never saw it coming, that my entire legacy could nearly be wiped out due to poverty and lack of precaution. Whatever the rage of my betrayal by the wasted space insolence of homosexuals like Jimmi Shrode, this I do not deserve, not the loss of my every accomplishment, everything I aspired to. Real killers are actually memorialized. Journalists tell their stories. A week after the date of this post, I moved, made a pitch. It's something.