"You sent that creature to its death!"-- Kate Mulgrew in the species 8472 crescendo episode
To spend the evening realizing how you're going to die in your own mucous, coughing it from lungs and convulsing it in the geriatric processes of bad cholesterol, holding Rick Berman suspect, is tantamount to resolving the mystery of Marianne Williamson's candidacy. I did not need to read guru shit nonsense in yet another of Ross Douthat's parallels, having grown up in the 70's, but never truly exploring New Age spirituality, I only now begin to see Berman had his own radical agenda about the consequences of military occupation, an agenda I didn't quite grasp when Voyager was gasping along to it's seventh season finale, or Deep Space Nine, in somewhat insipid fashion, had the Cardassians represent the Serbian military: I did a relatively cruel thing and removed Troy Blackford from my ever oscillating and now dwindling Twitter feed, but I am getting too worn out to have it truly be concerning, disappointed to discover I cannot delete my post with his tweet without substantial revision. No matter how much humans love babies, and sometimes they don't, if Adrian's glioma is so virulent, what is the price of this fight we all seem to wage? Conservative speech writers like Michael Gerson can be circumspect, but Troy Blackford pisses and moans like a weakling. As of this writing, he is, along with the bariatric surgeon, still reading my skeptical nihilism. I hate the softie minority care technician behind me, waiting for me to finish so we can commence the clinical disposal of my puss. That's simply what I've become. How unfortunate.
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