Omar Mateen was gay
How
long have the lockdowns been bouncing on the heads of our supposedly free
societies now? Six months? For more than three years, I have not been able to
brew my Krups Automated Drip of my own volition, quite an older model, without
significant duress. I cannot cook or prepare my own food spontaneously, this
now being the provenance of jamboree man, as I now call him, my little
niggardly music man, father driving me back to the city directing my gaze
from the passenger side, “Look at that,” he says with subdued emphasis, my eyes
following toward a broken gimp of a black man pushing a battered wheelchair
with an equally feral white woman in it. With the grace of God, this is the
suffering and persecution imposed on me now, stomach distended with acid reflux,
but never mind that. How often can I post about the forced imposition of
helplessness making me convulse excrement in pain due to medical model
indifference? If I want a particular book out of my personal library, I cannot
readily access a significant portion of my titles, or my own hard copy manuscripts,
my revisions to my nearly ready to publish collections locked away, one failed
hard drive after another, doubtful there is any meaningful way to right myself
with any positive assertion of who Joanne Marinelli was, at her best, as I
hurdle maybe, past sixty years into a leaden despair as numb as that ostracized
street couple. True despair is no empathy, no feeling, no remorse, a lack of
guilt, except for being still young enough to be struck by ironic moments only
relevant to me: a dissection on the series Deadly Motives of Omar Mateen,
the worst mass murderer in American history, second only to Stephen Paddock.
For those of you who do not view True Crime Network as a learning tool, (and
actually I do, getting past the macabre, the crime scene photos, I learn a good
deal, about local color, and the Orwellian sometimes ineffectual nature of
policing and investigation) Deadly Motives tries very hard to ration out
redemption as if it was part and parcel of an Oxycontin epidemic. The daughter
of The Happy Face Killer hosts the series, driving to and fro, to the families
of victims, to the relatives of the killers, and Sitora Yusufiy is no exception,
except there is something off in her expiations relative to this Afghan man she
wed so briefly, caught between worlds. I am not sure she has enough social
sophistication to truly understand homosexual masking in Western society.
In my
anger at Liberty Resources, I concede that I took the Pulse slaughter out of
context, but what I told this city’s center, nonetheless, was an accurate
warning. Exiles of independent living culture often invest in this culture as
the only family we have, and if its manifest corruption continues on as part of
the status quo, eventually Hamlet will keep repeating itself, whether or not
civilians in the modern hook up culture were felled by triggers we’re reluctant
to look at too closely, and I have a rather blunt suggestion, one which belies
my former intellectual aspirations, now besieged and harassed by Waiver compliance
demands, stop attempting to assimilate such deeply entrenched Islamic nationals
to secular methodologies. Institutionalism fared quite poorly in the aftermath
of this shooting. The Department of Justice overplayed its need to convict Noor
as an accessory, the media didn’t unravel the triggers or the character, and the
gay community in Orlando was left stricken, paralyzed, despite progressive tsunami
waves against populism.
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