"What are you, my wife?" -- a harried paraprofessional who was grateful I recalled he forgot to fax his time sheet
When management turns on the radiator, I always tend to destabilize in my intestinal region, though somewhat unbeknownst to me, I was vulking waste into my disposal briefs because of a summer cold, so the situation has somewhat reversed itself, even though my interior air quality is now analogous to a fabled Turkish bath. And we've had so much of this lately. Erdogan's authoritarian hypocrisy, the House of Saud and its Janus face. If I am familiar with Khashoggi's writing I cannot remember it. Of course he did not deserve death in a choke hold with dismemberment, but I am going to assert a truism via which I only diminish my once vaunted desire to return to the ranks wherein those with contracts club each other over the head: Saudi Arabia is an enemy.
It is over now, the cold, but I desperately need to regain some independence. I cannot continue to function like this, with or without this minority and our near affair. I don't want him, and this is a near 180 degree turn, but I can't feel anything for a man who disdains my thirst to return to analysis. Our welfare partnership nearly tore asunder this past Monday. He became furiously angry that the kitchen was in moderate disarray, given my punishing helplessness in this Quantum model. I love my godfather, but the vendor he runs, Mainline Medical, failed me. My suffering is obdurate, and my purported nurse blew a gasket because I did not make the fill-in aide do a better job. He frightened me as if I had actually been weak enough to sleep with him, and it nearly ended that morning between us. It is probably the way it will end, although he grew tender, appreciative, when I simulated "being" his woman, reminding him the time sheet had to be faxed, after we closed the rift which only fuels my confirmation bias. A failed little boy who cries for his mother, this fellow. I'd flick him away like a speck of lint, remembering I too can reject able bodied men. I'd go on, colder, harder, bigoted, but you've had enough implosive virulence from yours truly whose first priority is weaponizing anesthetics against homosexuals, mounting them with pins, despite the papal voice of Francis: Do not condemn them. Indeed, I admire the illumination of Foucault despite his resistance to thesis, on body mechanization. AIDS was in its infancy as a known pathogen in 1987, so I cannot, much like Erdogan, go "too" far, but I respect Foucault's use of a structuralist approach to make us see the insidious nature of control on our physiology, invidious , ever encroaching. Perhaps, the more rigorous the work product, the more sexual risks Michel Foucault needed to take. Well, he was French.
Into this, the Facebook engaged in a mass purge last week, and Breitbart, nonetheless, stirred me into empathetic anger for Brian Kolfrage. I am following him on Facebook, not yet on Twitter. Here is the article informing many of us about why we lost PM Beers. Here is the press release. It may read like a conscientious consumer protection plan, yet I never trusted social media from day one, and have some degree of difficulty placing a three limb amputee with a family to support on par with Rasputin. I will have a more focused post on the conflicts herein, perhaps on LinkedIn, which censored me briefly from participating in groups due to "lack of relevance." Now I simply do not engage. Before my older more functional Quantum failed, I made a tremulous job search on LinkedIn, and nothing ever panned. I received letters of interest from unfunded grants, like Plato's cave wall. I have to broaden my efforts. However weakened, the dragon wakens once more. Help me.
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