What do you hear?
Nothing but the rain.-- Edward James Olmos and Katee Sackhoff in stucco dialogue, Battlestar Galactica
Adding insult to injury, and significantly decreased ability to produce content, now without any commission activity,at least until I have the strength to engage a new platform, the left back quarter of my jaw has been stricken by an abscess. I have been fielding this for three weeks, stricken by allergic reactions to the antibiotics, amoxicillin, and the clindamycin I can only just handle, not being entirely certain I will survive the extractions at this point when the major clinics in Philadelphia actually reopen. I have never been able to transfer to the dental chair, and now my respiratory function is labored, my colon inflamed, my fecal incontinence all the more painful, no inglorious suicide by Lieutenant Dualia here as the series winds down into what is nearly a blockbuster climax. My theory about the entitled bullet in her brain, after nuclear Earth is rejected by the weary human insurgency, is that she cannot cope with having lost Billy, who is replaced by Tory in an episode I still have to back view. The Galactica reboot of 15 years ago is in many ways preposterous, takes survival genocide to a whole new level wherein I have never been able to take you with me, and I cannot get enough of it. Olmos has so sold me on Commander Admiral Adama that I simply dispense with his furiously repressed and vengeance stricken Latino identity, but he makes it work here as an embattled man of duty without saying a word, as does the entire ensemble, since we're all united here against an amalgam of Islamic terrorism transmuted into cybernetic wrath. How clever, and yet, throughout, the Cylons are basically children. Trumpian politics may have caught up to me at one point, but I have long since been superseded, erased, exterminated, and I regret the Ev Williams pay to play system on Medium more than I can tell you. We cannot actually use writing to say anything anymore, since Google has superseded Orwell, at least not collectively, and regardless of how diverse Medium members are, they fucking say nothing, collectively, over and over again, like much of Google's sweet candy streaming, keep it light, moving, and everything is forgettable technocratic automated bookmarks.
I deliberately said something into this ambulatory pitter patter, and the now mortally stricken battle axe of a spastic warrior has broken the rules, for daring to contend that a nigger predator is a thing under a column which so radically asserted that it's okay to be pessimistic because, in Jessica's cosmetic words, "people aren't going to make it". Jessica knows nothing, absolutely nothing, about medical barbarism which sits like a sewer tank on what used to be American material opulence, and whatever you've been through with the quarantine, you'll bury the subhuman lives of quadriplegics on the back stove of human affairs soon enough, as you always have; if you want me, come get me. You've tried before, and the Google rules are only the greatest sanction to exterminate the marginalized who are better off dead in the first place, not that Medium's staff will agree with that, but they are sure as hell on radio silence. I will not delete my raw outcry on the platform, because the sheer force of what I need to do to draw attention to corrupted subsistence illustrates it must be a necessary function of my right to live.
