Momentum of Validation on a Swell

And the one thing we know the federal government cannot do is locate illegal aliens-- Kyra Sedgwick, not in Georgia anymore

As a matter of technicality, it was meningitis which killed my brother Nicholas, and not the HIV he injected into his bloodstream, but all I know about the disease is that it is prevalent among college age adults because college age adults live in close quarters and sneeze on each other with unguarded nonchalance, and Bre Payton was close enough to this sybaritic out of control age group to make her sudden demise from its attack on her brain-stem comprehensible, if otherwise unfortunate. I had a distant relative of similar age die in an accident at a skateboarding company where he worked. Brian was probably closer to being a millennial than Bre, but the suddenness of youth taken before its time makes me wonder why old age such as mine can malinger into bitterness, and others are snatched in nearly incidental fashion, as in MRSA or virulent cancer eating alive Mexican carpenters and eight year olds while others are merely hamstrung into inhumane predicaments. My novelist friend Gretchen Laskas has had a difficult time since returning from Ireland with her husband. I am unsure what it is Karl Laskas does, but it is high octane, like a client in Alicia Florrick's law firm, higher up than anything in my family short of my father's high rolling real estate deals, and while that affluence is certainly more secure than my vulnerable, withering indigence, it did not shield his wife, Karl's, from nearly unimaginable travail, which struck Gretchen like hobo's hopping the rails in pairs. Her uncle committed suicide while she was still in West Virginia, and then her son was in sudden mortal jeopardy when meningitis through a strep infection attacked her son's brain. Although the samples of Grechen's early novels which I read at the turn of the century were on the maudlin side, somewhat over - dramatized, her Facebook posts illustrate the maturity of a nearly Tolstoyan focus on family dynamic and medical crises: Brennan's brain surgeries, the scars on his skull like Frankenstein, chicken noodle soup day at the San Diego hospital, the purported city of a band musician named David Owen, who trolled me on Twitter

and just as quickly vanished on Twitter, like something out of a mariachi band in Creole culture. I was going to write a post about his charming screenshot fit of my tagline. No particular reason except that I won the shouting match. All of you, (as in Krugman, Douthat, Kathleen Parker) feel guilty about my existence. Gretchen doesn't. She was merely considerate enough to ask how I was the day I did not do my grandmother's birthday celebration in the rain, not doing as well as I should, despairing in chest pains from lack of proper ability to defecate of ever having true personal autonomy again, keeping my chin just above water in static pain in my godfather's ill begotten Quantum, and no, the fact that Bre and Brennan and Brian and my long spiritual underworld shyster brother of a vanished gen Y milieu exude reversal by epidemic and folly, these instances of decease are too variable, as yet, to point to apocalyptic wariness, what they do illustrate, beneath the seams, like the sordid exceptions in certain NFL clubs, is modern medicine progress is being stonewalled, in the breach, by evolution's powerful insistence, and its ineptitude, as well, in being able to adapt the independence of those such as I, whom it once trained into defiant ability. Kyra Sedgwick's perspective about honest coming of age dysfunction is a truism, after a fashion, even if what seasons The Closer as your standard ham and cheese is somewhat mystifying.

Segnatto Esatto

Who are you and what makes you so important?-- Twitter user frog contessa, whom I answered tersely

I have to confess, despite the fact that social media is increasingly passe, even for me, the nativity of plebeians like the above contessa still has the capacity to throw one's ego off the mount. I am important simply because I tweet back to Speaker Ryan?
 

Three years ago, we began a great journey to set our nation on a better path. Now, my season of service is coming to a close. Tune in live soon for my Farewell Address as Speaker of the House: https://t.co/RrNzrxPmYU

— Paul Ryan (@SpeakerRyan) December 19, 2018

As a disabled, disenfranchised American, I am entitled to my ambivalent sympathies for the 54th Speaker of the House. He wasn't always mercilessly excoriated in the press by those of Canadian Jewish ancestry, like David Frum, but when the deputy prime minister of Italy ferrets out and follows your account, it is best to run your research fast and furiously and pay appropriate homage to the man in his native tongue. I knew Matteo was right wing, like Beppe, who isn't as right wing as English media would have the five star movement in the homeland appear, but when it comes to the political power Salvini holds, the spastic dowager dropped the ball, and aspirates:

 

"Se uccide i cristiani è nostro fratello". Queste le parole di odio del 20enne somalo arrestato per terrorismo internazionale. E voleva mettere "bombe in tutte le Chiese d'Italia". GALERA ed ESPULSIONE, via dal nostro Paese questa gente. VIA! https://t.co/8hCp35z8WV

— Matteo Salvini (@matteosalvinimi) December 18, 2018

Augh!!!!!!!!!!!!!! A stiletto through the heart! 

Matteo, questa donna rotta vuole morire e baciare i ciottoli a Roma per favore! I cannot very well excoriate the man for follow and drop behavior which I'd otherwise normally deplore. When I calm down and renew my grammar studies with vigor I will *speak* to him, but yes, the Deputy Prime Minister of my homeland, the blood of Roma in my veins, followed me, for three days! Who isn't the Empress of Italy under these transcendent hues of a cathedral's stained glass?

When Mickey Rourke Still Had A Face

Our mothers were right Charlucci, it's better to stick with your own kind.-- the post dexterously maimed Eric Roberts, as Paulie

I no longer get offers to family gatherings. What I was invited to attend this afternoon, and not attending after all, is a birthday party for my 96 year old grandmother here at Fair Acres. This is where her daughter Mary Worrilow, with her cyborg joint replacements, wishes for me to relocate, as if I need to keep an eye on the vacancy of identity in Pauline Cristinziani's emaciated frame. My father's sister Marie is diametrically opposed to the idea, preferring that I accept my lot here at Riverside, with its understated ideas of significantly abusive minority competency, while I play shuffleboard with the skepticism of a world weary soul. This is an image of Pauline in her ever so slowly stoic withdrawal from her sense of herself, part regal Catholic warrior, devout, unshaken, part peasant, the life she led during the war era makes us look like a group of distressed hatchlings saturated in fossil fuels. The spastic dowager should honor this grandparent in the celebration of a life extended beyond any reasonable meaning. She appears to be miserable in the Fair Acres visiting room, well groomed, hair white and nearly matted, her hand grasping her knee, she bears an appearance of anguish. Septa's route 21 is onerous, from Chestnut Street to 69th Street Terminal, it is damp, and although it would be good to get away, and I would be seeing family I never otherwise get to see, Saturday morning, a spastic colon pole vaulted into a lovely stress attack, ever so slowly enabling death through sepsis in my feces, domineering beyond what we would wish on enemies, presumably--

My administration is reviewing the strength of this ruling. In the event any court damages the #ACA, I will do everything in my power to direct state agencies to protect Pennsylvanians. https://t.co/pVOaLtBkKn

— Governor Tom Wolf (@GovernorTomWolf) December 15, 2018

--unless it's my governor, willfully maintaining the forest of the Commonwealth's poverty-stricken, as careless, otherwise, with the deciduous oaks, still wondering whatever happened to a citizen's self-esteem. And this, too, is an image of John, nearly 60, playing games with his vanity and conceit; it was partly his rebuff, as I've written, being the propeller behind the reason I boomeranged into the inner city in the first place.

Arguably, however, things might have not been appreciably different if I had played my cards closer to home. If John's post-graduate partner, whom I saw once, while they were totally into each other in a slow dance, parted ways with him, or he her,the link I give you provides ample reason why. If I had been able-bodied, with an appropriately toned body, would the demise of what I thought I wanted. birthing his children, among other things, have taken so much out of me that I never loved again? My novelist friend Gretchen, in the interim, faces the possibility of losing her son, Brennan, to an interior brain infection already surgically tackled once. She's such a polished writer that I am living this with her, but it's also why Facebook is anathema to me (and yes, my account chungs along). Even if she was still in West Virginia, I couldn't help her.

My beautiful boy is in deep trouble. He's got an infection. They seem to feel they have caught it in time but he was doing very poorly. Please help Adrian's Cancer Fund. Every person in our family is struggling at our limits, Adrian most of all. https://t.co/jK2LFuMqtX pic.twitter.com/V0MQZb2xB9

— Troy Blackford (@TBlackford3) December 16, 2018

The same applies to my steady follower. If Troy Blackford's plight with Adrian is genuine, I feel for the child. Even if I had the money, even some expertise, I couldn't change the outcome, but this is different in kind, again, from mobility medical indifference beating hordes into a pulp. Those of you who truly believe health care is a right, have no damn idea how you're referencing it. It is certain not inalienable as a pathway to freedom.

Green Room Dialogues Toward Cultural Relevance

But there are questions about Foster, now, that any reasonable person-- much less any reasonable employer-- should want to have answered.-- The Ringer, in a voluble chorus against a franchise over-valuing marketing skills against trauma we never used to discuss.

Ross Douthat’s appearance on Rose was the first that I became aware of him as a vivacious, enthusiastic analyst with an optimistic outlook. The link I selected for my viewers to stream is arbitrary as opposed to the actual segment with its few sentences I recall, the show where Ross deconstructs Harvard as a pulsating progressive mass with a model libertarian overlay. It was not so much what Ross said during the interview, as much as his engagement with his answer. It caught my attention, and that was it. It was not enough for me to rush to Amazon to purchase his book, or resubscribe to The New York Times. I am more interested in The Wall Street Journal at present, but that his tweet about Michel Houelleberg's byline, his underwhelming column about the ruling elite of yesteryear, his brazen assertion on Twitter about membership within that elite not being all that privileged as it’s cracked up to be, led me to do some background research on his biography. Ross Douthat and Niall Ferguson, in combination, with a little Sullivan in the mix, as you gasp that my virulence against homosexual identity momentarily makes allowances for this argument, represents a reasonable approximation of a writer’s life I thought I could sustain. All of them have scheduled appearances on television, and this is something I’ve no idea how to do, nor have the work product to make the effort feasible. Is this an agent’s responsibility? A publicist’s? Arcane details within the supposition that knowledge acquisition on camera doesn’t lend itself easily to mnemonic retention. I have been on television, purely for gawker purposes, but never as an analyst with access, to serve as a conduit, or to engage as an equal. Krauthammer, although he is no longer around to ask, presumably needed assistance in his daily living activities and was still able to manage. I no longer know now if the biggest joke is that which I have played on myself. Still, one receives the sense that Houelleberg is disingenuous in his appreciation of our Trump transformation. The president has thoroughly exhausted me and everyone else, and under Douthat’s playful assertion that we’re living a libertarian West Wing in realtime these days, I rather interjected that it is unfair that I can barely keep myself afloat within the labyrinth of a punitive public housing system while he almost had his career handed to him on a silver platter. This is not the “fusion” I envisioned in being able to go toe to toe with someone like Kathleen Parker. This is why I created this account in the first place, to reach across the divide, whether to a conventional moderate such as Parker, or Ross as her slightly more contrarian alter ego. The opposition to his Wasp nostalgia on social media was misguided, although that opposition to his prominence is the only battlefield Ross engages for his salary, but that doesn’t mean he defined his parameters all too clearly: JFK certainly emulated what being part and parcel of American royalty entails. His Catholicism was virtually an afterthought, and Truman, as the heir to Roosevelt’s deified mantle, didn’t ascend upwards in national politics with a silver spoon in his mouth, and the historical lens through which we view LBJ isn’t necessarily urbane, polished. Johnson was a local color Texan who played the ends against the means, cementing the Medicare disaster we live with today.

Pulmonary Obstruction Cycles

"I've had my setbacks too."-- a  technician the dowager will likely never commission again who freely divulged his skepticism with HomeAdvisor.

I wish to clarify what I wrote in Green Room about fundamental inequality. No one is to blame for the hardship imposed by spastic quadriplegia. What is worthy of censure is the religious outcry for our lives which thereafter essentially leaves us on our own beyond a certain point. Google doesn't have to allow me continued use of its AdSense services, for instance, and I created my own difficulty there through the abandon of my LiveJournal account, but I still have an inactive AdSense account with 3 dollars and 45 cents I rightfully earned, even if I am rhetorically otherwise unacceptable. I have no idea if Google still actively supports this pay for play option, but its disability services unit should be able to assist me in transferring that amount over to Shareaholic, or another provider. I cannot be like Leopold Bloom and know everything about software coding. Everyone has limits, intellectually and within pedagogue applications, and thanks to the folly of poorly deployed nepotism, I will be chained to the Commonwealth's dispensed with, and revised notions, of Medicaid Waiver services for the foreseeable future. Everything I've written about it still remains true, even with this paraprofessional and I settled into a begrudging routine, my overwrought awakening stymied. I asked him to tone it down, his attempt to badger me into happiness, and he likes another inner city single mother of two who had a miserable holiday. I cannot live life on a fraudulent buoy which only looks sturdy but is otherwise a filament, and it is entirely permissible for Ross Douthat and the Kathleen Parker's of this world to be equanimous patricians. My outcry isn't over inevitable biological decline. My outcry is over the near continuous disaster brought about by the failure of durable goods, ignorance of the black public housing wardens I have to contend with, like Gail Sims. She is clueless in relation to how stringent state or Commonwealth compliance requirements are, and it is in fact her job to at least have an awareness of the rules. I got paid $25k in the 90s to advocate for my clients out of these insane labyrinths, and now I have to arm wrestle nigger hicks out of the boon docks *shielded*, in the absolutely persuasive contention of Richard Dawkins, by the Presbyterian applied doxology of predestination.
Will I delete this post for a living commission or living wage contract? Certainly. Is it invalid? No. The obstacles I have to continuously surmount are inhumane, and I'm not living in Kabul. Libertarians shouldn't be fearful of examining market weaknesses, but by the same token, progressives need to realize that federated partnerships with nominal Christian denominations funded by established religions needs to come to an end. Presbyterian Homes gets away with murder. I have the right to self-defense, especially as, every time I am nearly ready to launch a genre collection, my survival is mysteriously, rather suddenly, at stake.

Rosewood Massacre, circa 1923

serious question. do you have any African American friends, because you really seem like a racist. I always thought you were a great actor, but wow! you come off on here as a very bitter person.

— Ddot R (@Derrick82397251) December 10, 2018

For what it's worth, the dowager reads this tweet from Ddot as an authentic attempt at a dialogue with Woods, and James made the choice not to meet the sally. Is James Woods a racist? Depends on the prism through one wishes to view it. In terms of inner city paternalism, the actor's views certainly skewer toward a highly charged prejudicial attitude, and yet this is a man who admires Kanye, and Kanye West is at the very least diffident about black identity politics. Ddot may have missed, as well, the actor's offer to pay for a sweet nappy-headed child to go to Disneyland. And while spastic could care diddly about West or his music, she does, with sincerity, admire his gracious act of charity and generosity to the family of Jemel Robertson. What happened to this man in Rahm Emanuel's city (the former saving grace operative of Obama's soaring expectations) is the worst of American sins, more horrific than the 1923 events in the Florida panhandle that gave Michael Rooker his asinine role as a law and order man willfully allowing minority property owners to be lynched in the name of a loose woman who was treated like swamp sewage and might have given Harper Lee her chilling revelation of shameful sexually held secrets which lead to the defendant's death in Lee's self-same novel and in Gregory Peck's canonical approach to deconstructing falsehoods on our silver screens. I cannot and do not dispute that the actions of Florida's citizens in this early modern century was a Reconstruction era hangover worthy of a purge by Mussolini's authority. This is where my great grandfather was at the time, in Roma, a caste level artisan oblivious to Europe's refuse somehow unfathomably creating the world's last superpower on fear and loathing burrowed under by Protestant magnanimity. What I dispute is the industry's reconstruction of what happened, and it amounts to as much paint by numbers chicanery as any hard line intolerance of America's ruling class. Ving Rhames was only cast because he is a linebacker and Apollo Creed rolled into one. No doubt the death toll is open to dispute, but trenches filled with corpses of 140 colored? This is one quadriplegic who sees the agrarian tendency to exaggerate the numbers as being a colorful fixation of liberation theology. 

I've honestly forgotten what type of article it was I hoped to do with Woods' sympathetic and charitable cooperation. It has been 13 months since my near elimination from society, and I was not taking notes, only struggling toward a thesis-topic here on Entertainment Arts, but if Woods has reasons to be bitter, it may be due an indubitable realization that Hollywood executives huff ether in their creative parallel universe. I esteem and admire the European intellect and picked up another variation on this theme in a bio-engineering Icelander, who, if she bothers to absorb the implications of this link, will be appalled. The reason it truly no longer penetrates is because I in turn realize it doesn't matter. I have been murdered, as it is, by a broken-hearted graduate lunging into a progressive holy grail, all of 23 years old, never able to successfully rectify her mistake, a little late now, oozing in symptoms and disposable wear, as expendable as an innocent blacksmith.

Meuse-Argonne Offensive in Smallville's Evenly Distributed Portions

It's easy to mock Coulter, who wrote a book titled In Trump We Trust, for ever thinking she could trust Trump (and I will probably go on doing so), but at least something mattered to her. --Charles J Sykes, defuncted

Raspy breathing, still not readily able to marinate and work on my other projects for a simple reason: I need my furnishings in this malevolent studio apartment rearranged, and one of my cousins first volunteered and then reneged on assisting Gallahad with that. It took me awhile to realize my pet paraprofessional, like the dead mothers whose skins we use as camouflage, has bipolar disorder, and this has further diminished his standing. I try to forget what happened last spring, not that I don't comprehend that volatility and understood it even back then, but this is a highlight to what I mean when I simply pole volt over the barriers and convey that bipedal people want spastics like me dead. Gretchen Laskas, my novelist friend, whose son is battling meningitis in his brain, has asked for help in her new San Diego location, and she and husband Karl receive it. My family, on the other hand, won't lift a finger. Do you see? Welfare cannot do everything for me, nor do I truly expect my followers to form a creche for my benefit, but I've been asking for assistance since October of 2017, and I was forced to reach back out to Liberty Resources, the same center that reported me to the FBI, and only I really understand the stark lunacy in that: Jimmi Shrode is afraid I will actually try to hurt him, the fat fucking 50 year old toddler homosexual jackass.
The histrionic undercurrents in the female. Regardless of ideology, this is one reliable indicator of the difference between men and women, the hyper nerves involved. Ann Coulter, Candace Owens, the ferocity of the cat fight makes Arnold Schwarzenegger look like the reincarnation of Emperor Joseph. Candace interests me, in the way that perplex anomalies always do. I do not have to accuse myself of hypocrisy if I reconsider and follow her again. She did help me garnish 34 likes during the Kavanaugh  confirmation hearing, 34, but I am not that self-abnegating. There are racists who, as I almost did last spring, develop a hate-fascination with the indigenous whom they eschew, and I sincerely prefer not to navigate my old age in this direction. It is the major issue I found in the CW summer series Burden of Truth. Kristin Kreuk opens the pilot with a deft and polished brass as a corporate player. Don't turn. I begged the writers not to give her painful revelations that made her soften into a crusader for a group of toxin exposed high school girls, but of course, she does turn, shepherding along a Canadian Indian lesbian half sister, no less, still casting an oblong glance at the half-breeds borne out of tortured squaws from westerns over a half century old. These are the way things flow away from me under JEVS and its victorious paradigm, but my mind can also reclaim and capture: The Resident differentiates itself ever so slightly as a medical model drama by illustrating that free market wealth is necessary. The SGA makes a turn in this series too, but not so drastically that viewers cannot see why we'd all like to be nouveau riche. I bookmarked a platform to highlight my published articles, and I will have to find it once again through connecting the odd dots of incongruity. Digital doesn't always mean easier.

A Moabite in Judah

"I think it started when Burr shot Hamilton."-- Dr. Randy Barnett, Georgetown University

What I wanted to discuss Tuesday morning, with a certain degree of blandness in my demise, is the destruction of Paul Ryan's legacy. Jack Posobiec, local Trumpian jackass whom I followed briefly to see what formula he was using that I wasn't, in order to support himself, blockhead who treats his followers like eighth grade civic students, collapsing the lack of virtual dimension on social media with the invocation to raise your hand (and where, Jack, are people supposed to raise their hands in the automated continuity of cloud computing based storage?) Damn stupid fuck, Posobiec. I attend three universities and get out-shined by a Protean buzz head like this fellow, who observed earlier in the week, "Ryan has been in the legislature 20 years, can you name his accomplishments?" That was a stinging rebuke to a tax reformist, and I think, not entirely fair, not even by the standards of Chait's summary for Intelligencer. When I was still on Niume's failed public blogging platform, I too jumped on the bandwagon, badly wanting the ACA repealed. It has made my access to reasonable standard of care that much more difficult, and this was the one thing I had hoped the GOP could achieve. While it's trues that Trump was light on policy details, Ryan was an experienced legislature who committed a stunning ideological failure. This diminished his prominence, and that was the end of that. But instead, let's switch gears
to Twitter's detractors, once again delivered by Dr. Barnett and his delightfully cribbed humor. I happen to enjoy the way Barnett delivers his bon mots thank you, and he was kind enough to tweet beck to me about the demise of the filibuster, which I believe is an overlooked issue in contemporary legislative battles. I happen to agree with Reynolds, particularly in light of the fact that I mistook Sergio Siano for a Korean lesbian and got into a brawl with a British faggot named Farlene, or some such spelling, and half the international disabled community. I am laughing to the point of burning tears in my eyes. 
My Samsung Galaxy is larger than my old Apple, but if I do not open the actual thumbnail pictures of account holders, I cannot see them all that clearly in miniature. I knew the retweet came from a follower in Singapore, and leapt to the wrong conclusions. On my computer screen, Sergio is clearly a male who didn't want to be embroiled in a date rape. However, if you examine his thread, he claims he was accused of being gay, does gay things, and isn't homophobic. He insists on it more than once. While the old fashioned term "gay panic" actually points to the possibility of a psychotic break, people need to cease and desist on the issue of homoerotic fear. It is perfectly natural to be afraid of letting go of that kind of inhibition. I told Sergio, as I have written here, that I was molested by an insatiable black woman from the inner city. It was one of the most difficult episodes in my life, and this is why gays and lesbians get killed. I comprehend violent reactions against such prevaricating tactics of exploitation. Gender fluidity is going to take us quite some time to process, to hit on equitable solutions for all, including insecure heterosexuals. Speaking of which, I have not read Douthat's wasp piece yet, but he is defending caste poise, dispensed to the masses. Why was Ruth, as King David's great-grandmother, so important within the Torah? Think about it for a while. There are a number of lessons in Semitic apocrypha.