Vervoort, 40, suffered from incurable, degenerative spinal pain. She said in an interview in Rio de Janeiro three years ago that she only got about 10 minutes of sleep some nights and described the pain that caused others to pass out from just watching her. She said sports kept her alive.-- as disseminated from the Belgian press in its clinical mercies
I have always been a Johnny come lately to viral fads. I was diffident about blogging when it became a form of media counter culture, had the misfortune to select LiveJournal as a starting point in 2009, and my scar tissue was too raw and unpolished despite my publishing experience. I was diffident about Twitter, and only ran afoul of it as a platform after I adapted to it and its staff in turn adopted Facebook censorship tools, and I think we're all cognizant of the fact that less screen time is beneficial, but this wisdom is difficult to apply when we become prisoners to socialist models of impoverished tenancy housing, and my recent lacuna towards posting anything at all is due to pain and apathy of defeat in an essentially nigger city whose values will eventually destroy the success of European colonial expansion. A mild mannered technocrat like Ev Williams, and indeed, few others, even libertarians, can understand how such hatred within me evolved, as we are taught to condemn what people do, not who they are, and costly solutions like extermination aren't feasible, except as it pertains to the reality that humans kill each other, most often because familiarity breeds contempt, or men have a visceral fear of femininity, less often out of ethnic hatred bred by politics, and I've been desensitized enough to be aware of my own impulse triggers, however ineffectual, but this isn't why I have an intuitive dislike for Medium.
For a significant time, I did not even assemble the platform as the original collective platform on which other models like Niume or Virily were based. Nevertheless, I've paid into Medium membership and the partnership program, primarily because I could die from sitting on my buttock in a disastrously assembled Quantum powerchair. Pennsylvania's Medicaid and federal Medicare is killing me faster than my age, allowing me to understand Vervoort's excruciating embrace of euthanasia better than most of you, and the right to suicide will eventually overcome ecumenical and secular opposition, yet I balk, despite the apathy and the peril and the poverty I am fighting. I balk over every justified suicide tourist, and like the rest of you, even grow angry when it can be viewed as an extravagant contagion, the suicides of despair which cannot even visualize urban honey traps like mine, me with no one, no more positive bonds with former supervisors, no more dead lovers, cheating husbands, just tissue paper underwear and a mentally hobbled black man tending to me whom I would do anything to cut loose. I pity him more than not, as I have excuses which he doesn't, and I am, after all, this close to sixty years of age, and may not make it. This Blogger account will remain open as long as I am able to type it, but I have to slow down with it as I need money desperately if I can hope to circumvent the destruction of civilization through social welfare. Some content I've done here will go to my Medium account, some won't, and I am always, in some form, working toward a scholarly end. And if I can hold out maybe I can repair my horrendously bad environment.
