Violence in the Voice

"And you will never touch her again." the Rose Armiger of Henry James

I was going to back date this post into the archives, but decided to leave it its currency, as I am in the process of wiping myself off Twitter, both like, and unlike, James Woods. It was my one real time outlet to the world, now that I am in bondage, but I am sick of it, and unlike Laura Loomer, I am not going to let the company have that kind of power over me for uncouth knocks, though it was my only friend, not realizing that my correspondence was going to their law firm, as if I am in a position to bite. I'm not, and I am not even angry, merely finished. The only reason I deleted the hard tweet defending people like Ryan Fournier on Kamala Harris and the sexual insults against her was to delete the account. I then deactivated, but thought the better of my data. Parler is all that is left, and that, as Trumper Darkness to Light says, sucks, no hostility to the said Parler app developer intended. I can't really *talk* on Parler. Paul Joseph Watson and cronies aren't interested in deconstructive sagas of how I live worse than a dog in its own shit. They are deniers and info wars. I am not, just vitriolic at my worst and ugly and mean, trying to hang on, with occasional fine points. I don't get a hard on over Donald Trump, but when he bucks one in the net, good for him, and American liberalism otherwise is vomit. I have grown too ossified, and, simultaneously, not thickened enough. I knew the monitors would target me eventually, but didn't think it would convey my doom is foretold.
I had the strange inclination to start rewriting my faded novel idea that JJ Abrahams ran the long yard to innovate television with. I thought forcing myself into the flow, taking a retreat, would insulate me from my suicide planner playing deck. Telling you my quadriplegic neighbor Jay is dead certainly won't do that. He was a true C break quadriplegic, my age, younger by only weeks, and almost akin to my sister's husband, if memory is accurate-- that I cannot guarantee--, he went into construction at 19, fell off a roof, and like me, had enough, and smoked and drank himself to death. Since I now have no viewers, why not be as utterly frank and blunt and inconsolable as the case warrants. Instead of rewriting those chapters between a bell diving anguish, I nearly finished James The Other House, but not finished enough for the whole, and watched Garak stumble into the Dominion War. His incisive mendacity makes him one of my favorite Trek characters. If any stray reader wishes to tell me why I should continue dealing with feces riding into my vagina after I taught myself how to take care of it with all my power chairs low enough and built on the right slant, that is, until 17, go ahead, take a crack at it. Like Jay, I've fought all my life. Unlike Jay, I hate the niggers in their diffident service of my needs. I don't truly know what he thought. His airway constricted. He's dead.