The Family Tie Clarification, Sharon Osborne

 We're not saying that sexually repressed people commit murder,-- Linda Papadopoulos, disguised comedienne

 It has been suggested to me by the blabber mouth who couldn’t come in after the northeast’s first major nor’easter, that Dorwart and his wife blocked me to avoid a flirtation triangle; it is conceivable, and to all appearances Jason is an affable westerner, not a bad looking recycle version of John Hockenberry. Hockenberry ignores me too, though everyone in the disabled community knows him, in the range of our personable voices, but the fact that I have taken the block of a liberal drama instructor to heart doesn’t have a sexual component to it. I have had sex with quadriplegia according to Frank the ex, and it’s nothing worthy of a fetish with penis pumps and injections into the cartilage. I have written about it here on Blogger, much to the unhappiness of Alphabet, in the usual turbulence, and I have no desire to nab a paraplegic, and if I was to veer toward disabled men, it would be where I have journeyed before, circling the drain with a disaster like Christian Hofstetter, the blind hacker who made a fool of me at my own expense-- love the literary arts, envisioning the downward crevice of my mouth, where cold sores and fever blisters afflict winter dwellers. Christian was actually nothing in the scheme of things, but I was furious for having been played, and had the fancies we all project onto the ne’er do well. No, Jason Dorwart was about identity, the ability to disagree. I don’t know him, but the indignation rankles because he should comprehend me; instead he turned tail, and in my limited experience, the wife was a bit queer. I have had transsexuals follow me on Twitter and realize their mistake. The British crime author who fled me and I pursued with a small degree of pleasurable micro-aggression, saw tattoos of gunshots all over her body and for those of you telling me I need help, I think you ought to look at how the British left runs the jack, and that, okay. Check. Her sorry ass bulge believed me to be sympathetic. The motives of Dorwart’s wife elude me, however. I didn’t seek a consolation prize. I am struggling with relevance and poverty, decline, certainly not the only one in the ship. In the sense of getting a read on character, I don’t get it. I’m not an actor, merely an intermediate writer who almost and always almost cracked the glass ceiling, and of the very limited cache of run of the mill actresses I know who are as invisible as anyone, I don’t like them. I chased Barbara Gordon off my premises the year I discovered my academic advisor’s demise. Barbara was kind and well meaning and was there to empower invalids whose lives would never launch. This didn’t mean she and I made able co-workers. I axed it. Without regret. Whether or not my own internalized ruthlessness is deserving of Elizabeth Wettlaufer’s ability to terminate my respiratory function is almost an esoteric moral luxury. Wettlaufer wasn’t an aberration in any real sense. She was a fat and lonely nurse, a genotype relegated and overwhelmed by the success of gerontology. It isn’t simply the crime genre which gives these people undue importance. Papadopoulos represents the legitimacy flank, the insights about human behavior containing it.

I had a horrible day, one in which it would have been great to get things done without blabber mouth man, particularly without Ozzy's grand dame catting it on my screen. Simple Simon needs these bitches, but my stress incontinence took a knee. I could be more vicious, but I don't think Sharon knows herself particularly well. She's superficial, unwilling to probe the after affects of the British invasion. She may look fantastic for her age, but she's brittle, hypocritical. I'm too strong to die, too weak to rebuild any stability, and I can't forbid my homeboy The Talk. He has an incessant need for sound. Papadopaulos knows these warning signals as well as I, but as to powerlessness, by the time I get a more suitable power chair, it will be to late,

Neural Net Diversity and Accidental Contact with Malodorous Waste on the Sole

"Please don't leave me," -- Emmett J. Scanlan , ghastly impregnator

Oftentimes, I do wish I could bring disabled performers into this account. I have been made aware, for instance, of how Aneesh Chaganty deploys Kiera Allen in Run, who is reputedly a wheelchair user herself, and in this sense, I do not necessarily feel that Jason Dorwart’s forcefulness doesn’t yield positive results, particularly in his spat with Bryan Cranston of Breaking Bad. For a reminder, Cranston starred in an American remake, The Upside, about the manufactured survival of a quadriplegic and his African baggage handler. In the French original, the baggage handler actually was an African character, who finds his lesser equivalent in Kevin Hart playing off of Cranston’s vitality. The controversy swirled around representation, and I said the same thing to Jay Gertz, years before this disability script was conceived, that Jason wrote in his Denver column after the fact: Hollywood professionals utilize our lives and leave us behind, with notable exceptions. If you are a conservative, or a Parler user with raucous diction, or even a libertarian pulpit thumper, where is my divergence with Dr. Dorwart and his ejaculation and ham sandwich humor?

Essentially, it is about the reality of limits and liability. The film industry is in essence still an industry, and there are risks to putting physically frail people onscreen. Not all of those frail individuals can transcend empowerment therapy and make it art, like Vincent Price, who fainted from emphysema in passing the stardom torch to Depp in Burton’s esoteric fable. Scissorhands was the beloved suspense actor’s final film role, and as I wrote before Dorwart blocked me, to my regret (just because I renounce IL doesn’t mean I don’t miss those who don’t), the logistics of viewing smaller productions as when Jason recommended Tribe of Fools to me in 2018 was difficult in 2018. Heading into 2021, it is virtually impossible for me to assist such peers without making use of Zoom. Who or what are they, this tribe? Jason, after passing me to his wife's account like an abused housecat, will never bother to relent. The wife blocked me after following me too. I merely challenged her with a question. Her husband disavowed me, in the familial sense of shared experience, so what made her follow me? No answer, merely the ever invigorating dynamic of death by social cut, albeit digital in nature. Some couple, so much fragile psychology, a mere visiting assistant professor,  carefully categorized after the Gibson's landmark victory, engaged in exactly the same contracultural segregation the technocracy sees as valid. Thus it follows my own expansive rationale with video, and its gluttony. Instead of once again climbing the rungs in voluble physiological distress to save my thin oeuvre of equally spartan lifelines, I discovered terrible B megalodon movies with such abstract composites of  UN bureaucratic obsessives that the shark seemed possessed of military genius, then punished myself with this incestuous horror gem.  I will give Scanlan and his supporting female actor credit for one thing. They manage to convey sibling rivalry like a blown fuse, which despite disgust, was nevertheless titillating, but what was the point? Kellee wants to assure the second sex will endure male loathing into perpetuity? Three years, two hard drive failures, one drunk computer technician stopping short of propositioning me, one Quantum Edge crushing me in spinal pressure, and my dog-tied janitor who thinks I understand what he means by Saturn is in your twelfth house. And I expected to put life and legacy back together.

How We Are Manipulated

 No one said life had to be easy.-- a trapper on Salmon River

I have been so convulsed of late with colon stress that I cannot marshal my strength of will to file a an electronic notice of appeal to Medium Support about my account restoration, and it is probably a unique way to die, forcibly shitting myself in a Quantum Edge 6, which to your untrained eye, looks much like the also deplorable plastic defunct Jazzy, but I will ask you to take a look at Wiki's still photo of Ev and Vox'es image of Justice Thomas. The ruthless Twitter billionaire who will muzzle the quadriplegic in no uncertain terms over the holiest of holy Terms of Service Jack Dorsey the penitent offered Feinstein the vacant in tremulous fashion, these reign supreme. No question of clemency. Ev's still photo connotes a holistic, somewhat messianic figure. If we examine side by side how liberal outlets like Vox portray Thomas, his upward tilted guffaw is mildly invidious and intimidating, an African amphibian out to swallow the princess who has to suffer the nub of the pea under her bedding, not that this is conscious, or even deliberate, as it was only flagged during one women's research, but it certainly can be construed as racist with inherent bias.

Eliot Page and Virtual Fiction

 He had to rent all the hotels-- John Dos Passos

Many years ago there was a PBS documentary on nomadic fishermen drowning a dugong to death for its food, and in terms of human cruelty to marine life, it was relatively sanguine. Gaunt and impoverished Filipinos need to eat, but the capture stays with me. The dugong was helpless. The men didn’t have to hold it beneath the shallow waters to drown it and lift it into the miserable dinghy to carve it up for very long. It was substantially larger than what the dugong hunters and turtle carvers do here, and yes, please pity the large sea turtle, even though environmentalists always rather lead naïve Americans to conclude the native and indigenous people are barbarians at the mercy of the Australian press. In terms of whose competing interests are more justified, these examples represent why I am not a species optimist, never will be, and conclude that evolutionary mechanisms overcompensated human success in my carnivalesque fun and games with excrement over 50 in this miserable last decade of a ferocious battle lost in the will to live. Fairly soon, given our outrageous numbers, the ineptitude of social media’s populism, China’s centrist methods will overtake all but small communities in enclaves centrism cannot quite control, and individuals such as myself will be euthanized, but avoiding extinction? Slowing a man-made climate crisis? Perhaps my physiology is over-reacting to the non-existent Eliot Page insisting it’s a transgender male. It took a small effort to realize I was familiar with the face of Ellen Page and viewed Juno casually, not enough to engage with it as an armchair critic, but these bait and gender switches are magic, aren’t they? If I desire to walk, it turns out, all I have to do is assert I can walk, and orthopedic specialists can loop straps under my armpits, and quadriplegia then doesn’t exist. This is the totalitarianism and deceit of trans identity.