Every writer who has any degree of aspiration in the U.S. wants to get into The Atlantic and similar periodicals. The popular highbrows, interchanging bylines with senior fellows even, those minute analysts of detail, like Fallows, who effortlessly seams up space in The New Republic and The Atlantic, as easily as filtering sea water with gills, reserving a land organ lung for gulps of oxygen when hauling that reptilian ancestry on the beach. None of you have any idea how hard it was for me to once come as close as I did to both periodicals, though I wised up in my pre-internet era and ceased submitting my poetry to the magazine that made Henry James into a sub-academic gay decoder for the untutored. Anyone of pretension keeps the Atlantic in orbit, knows that James Bennet went to New York after Hitchens passed away, knows Frum took over, without necessarily caring how far this descendant of the Roman working class has fallen, in mortal combat with her marshmallow nigger aide on a daily basis. Conceivably, I could argue I am being abused by this man, verbally, daily, on the eve of the midterm results, Frum rather inconceivably tweets
A female friend just lost a job for being "difficult." As she narrated what had happened, it struck me: a difficult woman is one who asks for the things I get without having to ask for them.— David Frum (@davidfrum) November 6, 2018
He was mocked, but my response was not satirical, rather a throbbing pulse of pain, none of you really give a fuck. I took the man off my feed, genuinely indignant, genuinely more than indignant. Given his paranoia over Trump's ostensible Manchurian qualities, I'd be persecuted for cruelty to Canadian expatriates if that poor mother Russian bear shredded his jugular in a particularly creative mortal gerrymander. Do you read this as a victimized outcry? Maybe it is a sentiment we can expect from a Canadian blunderbuss who was 43's speechwriter.
I only ever saw the black and white film version of Osborne's explosive movement drama, find it a consolation that Burton is somehow incapable of anything but a commanding grandeur, and in that, he's irreplaceable, even if cutting feminine love for him into the forbidden orifices is a trifle superlative, wishing that you might have a child and that it would die, the agony he created then triumphant over him. This wasn't the post I wanted to write this morning, obviously, but I'll toss out a discordant positron: The delightful optimism of Antonio Paris pleases me. He honors me, even if the alliance isn't everlasting.
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