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,