The failed little boys in old men don't like to be blamed, but if I had the nerve, Jerry, I'd curse you with a ferocity to bleach your bones in the grain of your coffin. "I'm the humanist atheist your parents told you to stay away from."
Manic motherfucker. My whole life, a fantasy burning in a methane mass extinction, because I could not handle the impact you had on my damaged neural net; I'm dying on my own shit and the censure of black bull dykes under any other name, never pausing to question whether I was healthy enough for the investment of a terminal degree, thinking liberal ablest punks out of my league was worth the indulgence of lifelong self-pity. If I had the nerve, you thinking that SUNY sending me an audio contract would be some kind of salve for nearly life long urban destitution. Illness manages to trivialize even the best memories, never enjoying either the consent or the force of your sexual substitutes. I begged in exhortation "don't die before me," fortunate that I don't have the courage to vomit the bile of impetuous contempt, my right armpit sweating glucose (who knows?).
Showing posts with label acolytes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label acolytes. Show all posts
Sunday, August 24, 2014
Monday, June 9, 2014
Health Care Crisis
Perhaps Google earns money off my raw content, and since I am not earning money off my raw content, then why am I investing so much of my time, breaking so many eggs, shredding my wounds? A Blogger account is not much, in terms of a legacy, if it can even be counted as one. Let me return to the poor vaunted Louise Norlie, secretly telephoning me from her backyard in New Jersey. "Most people go with their aide," she said, with an implied perplexity at my lack of having one. But in the ten years plus of having one, then using my own money to borrow Tim, I was abused, for the most part, by the African Americans taking the job. Not all of them, but a significant percentage. Every "aide" I had except for the new one, whom I have only used once, has discomfited me, if not abused me with micro-behaviors, and this is all I have to look forward to. Dealing with low income stressed strangers who have their own triggers. I did not go through six fucking years of university to make getting a diaper change my life time award, but my age is pushing the turning point where I'll have no choice but to depend on ignorant women with bad teeth for my care.
My last advice to Louise, by the way, is to assert herself for herself. Stop looking for apron strings, or for someone like me to draw you out on a specialized list serv, or for someone like me to engage with you because we both have other aesthetic needs beyond medical model maintenance. Go out, take a risk, meet a boy. Have sex. Do something rather than sneak telephone calls to wounded warriors.
Marie and I haven't spoken in over a week. A record for me, but father's sister and I have worn each other out. She doesn't want the same services offered by PCA that I also refuse at my peril, but it was her choice not to have hospice care for Lillian, my favorite grandmother, or my uncle, her husband, who died of lung cancer while she still smokes three packs a day. Nor is my father getting care for my stepmother Louise, with her RA. Did he marry her to punish himself for me, his dead son? I don't know, but he is eighty and cannot give his wife nursing care.
Louise hates us, my sister says. I don't doubt it. Maybe that is guilt over my mother, or that my physical vulnerability reminds her of her own, but let's extrapolate, even though I am not Timothy Taylor: You probably have an uncle Joseph with cognitive limitations signifying mild dementia, or an aunt with a broken wrist who can no longer climb stairs, with MRSA exposure and infection. If a mostly stable quadriplegic like me can fall out of production due to transit restrictions and major fallout with compliance, with the parental generation of her family now falling into "nursing home eligibility" (I welcomed padre into the club not many weeks back when Marie and I discussed the Louise crisis). My stepmother always is a crisis-- how are we going to afford the direction in which we're heading? You may think my euthanasia advocacy cruel, but demographics estimate global population will reach 11 billion by 2100. We're crushing ourselves.
My last advice to Louise, by the way, is to assert herself for herself. Stop looking for apron strings, or for someone like me to draw you out on a specialized list serv, or for someone like me to engage with you because we both have other aesthetic needs beyond medical model maintenance. Go out, take a risk, meet a boy. Have sex. Do something rather than sneak telephone calls to wounded warriors.
Marie and I haven't spoken in over a week. A record for me, but father's sister and I have worn each other out. She doesn't want the same services offered by PCA that I also refuse at my peril, but it was her choice not to have hospice care for Lillian, my favorite grandmother, or my uncle, her husband, who died of lung cancer while she still smokes three packs a day. Nor is my father getting care for my stepmother Louise, with her RA. Did he marry her to punish himself for me, his dead son? I don't know, but he is eighty and cannot give his wife nursing care.
Louise hates us, my sister says. I don't doubt it. Maybe that is guilt over my mother, or that my physical vulnerability reminds her of her own, but let's extrapolate, even though I am not Timothy Taylor: You probably have an uncle Joseph with cognitive limitations signifying mild dementia, or an aunt with a broken wrist who can no longer climb stairs, with MRSA exposure and infection. If a mostly stable quadriplegic like me can fall out of production due to transit restrictions and major fallout with compliance, with the parental generation of her family now falling into "nursing home eligibility" (I welcomed padre into the club not many weeks back when Marie and I discussed the Louise crisis). My stepmother always is a crisis-- how are we going to afford the direction in which we're heading? You may think my euthanasia advocacy cruel, but demographics estimate global population will reach 11 billion by 2100. We're crushing ourselves.
Friday, March 21, 2014
Tomasi
Increasing soy, legume, and flaxseed consumption can help with estrogen deficiency.
Since a part of me hates them, I have contemplated leaving the list once again. I hate them for being dry tawdry snits. I hate them because even if I kill myself to publish a paper in the Henry James Review nothing I accomplish will make me a colleague. I do not relish being addressed as "my dear," and this set me off to breach their ostentatious restraint; yet my entire Internet life has been defined by disease impaired sometimes courteous Jamesians, even if I hate them more for a disabled identity tagging me even within a virtual community, on the fucking list, whose only tangible cohesion is that group members are centralized and disseminated through Creighton. I'm being unfair and unkind, and the unkindness amounts to this:
I wish the Munchkin had left me alone. More than that. I wish my reticence had not lowered my guard with the girl. I did not want her friendship, and still, I waded in at low tide. It is true I raised my drawbridge later, when I found myself engaging the shared experience plot points, not doing myself any favors with it, but it was foolhardy, allowing this familiarity, after all my years of accrued folly. And let me make a distinction: I am not condemning the *tells* Louise gave me about herself. The brittle bones, my inferences about her social isolation. I am condemning me for getting personal with a fan. She might have been perceptive and had other fine qualities as a reader, but JD Salinger wasn't entirely off key in his exasperation with idol worshipers. The exchange has been consigned to the attic, but I cannot afford to fall into similar traps in the future.
I am not giving up coffee, as I wonder what in L'Wren Scott's financial difficulties was worth hanging herself over. Presume that Jagger was a demigod dick. She had to know that. Her story makes me wonder about those of us who endure, because if it wasn't for the nightmare of my utter failure in the Brotherly Hood, I'd throw in the fucking towel. Annoyed with myself for borrowing Jared Diamond from the Prime lending library. Yes, I can give him back, a public intellectual who doesn't necessarily appeal to me, but Amazon indicated I have to wait a week before I can borrow again.
A small part still loves the James in whom I find solace, and yet asserting myself to say "goodbye Dr. Cox and Greg consider my scolding as a buried axe battle," this means nothing; it is entirely irrelevant. I do not really hate them. Their emblematic genteel lifestyle is beyond the acquisition of my resources. Not that they're wealthy by modern gilded age standards, but they are more secure in economic terms than I'll ever manage in the fewer productive years I've left.
Since a part of me hates them, I have contemplated leaving the list once again. I hate them for being dry tawdry snits. I hate them because even if I kill myself to publish a paper in the Henry James Review nothing I accomplish will make me a colleague. I do not relish being addressed as "my dear," and this set me off to breach their ostentatious restraint; yet my entire Internet life has been defined by disease impaired sometimes courteous Jamesians, even if I hate them more for a disabled identity tagging me even within a virtual community, on the fucking list, whose only tangible cohesion is that group members are centralized and disseminated through Creighton. I'm being unfair and unkind, and the unkindness amounts to this:
I wish the Munchkin had left me alone. More than that. I wish my reticence had not lowered my guard with the girl. I did not want her friendship, and still, I waded in at low tide. It is true I raised my drawbridge later, when I found myself engaging the shared experience plot points, not doing myself any favors with it, but it was foolhardy, allowing this familiarity, after all my years of accrued folly. And let me make a distinction: I am not condemning the *tells* Louise gave me about herself. The brittle bones, my inferences about her social isolation. I am condemning me for getting personal with a fan. She might have been perceptive and had other fine qualities as a reader, but JD Salinger wasn't entirely off key in his exasperation with idol worshipers. The exchange has been consigned to the attic, but I cannot afford to fall into similar traps in the future.
I am not giving up coffee, as I wonder what in L'Wren Scott's financial difficulties was worth hanging herself over. Presume that Jagger was a demigod dick. She had to know that. Her story makes me wonder about those of us who endure, because if it wasn't for the nightmare of my utter failure in the Brotherly Hood, I'd throw in the fucking towel. Annoyed with myself for borrowing Jared Diamond from the Prime lending library. Yes, I can give him back, a public intellectual who doesn't necessarily appeal to me, but Amazon indicated I have to wait a week before I can borrow again.
A small part still loves the James in whom I find solace, and yet asserting myself to say "goodbye Dr. Cox and Greg consider my scolding as a buried axe battle," this means nothing; it is entirely irrelevant. I do not really hate them. Their emblematic genteel lifestyle is beyond the acquisition of my resources. Not that they're wealthy by modern gilded age standards, but they are more secure in economic terms than I'll ever manage in the fewer productive years I've left.
Thursday, February 27, 2014
March Winds Slicing Pillow Down
To die cradled in a decentralized exploitation model isn't much of a victory for matriculation, and that is what nigger filth like Miss Eddy forced me to remember-- not that a homoerotic experience would be a dangerous thrill, but that it gets people killed because it is duplicitous, dishonorable. My father let niggers hurt me when I was a child. My father let niggers hurt me because he married a sick and mentally unstable woman who needed to get away from an austere mother. The sick and unstable woman lost his son and managed to rip me out of her womb in grand theater, before she bore my dead brother. I wasn't good enough, so I could eat rust with Abraham Lincoln's burden. A university education didn't change much. Minor miracle that I once had a 3.5 GPA at all, within or without an institution.
Case management has been one continuous line of abuse, and no legal rhetoric, nor anything Liberty Resources represents changes that. The coordinators are mostly unattractive women who need an income and get one by behaving like den mothers, close ranks against the suffering and expulsion they generate, and yet, transvestites like Erik, bull dykes like like Nancy, they treat decentralization like a Biblical commandment. Erik, regardless of my animosity, is dying, and how following black Caribbeans around on a leash is better than centralized nursing care, this is not much of a differential
Sure, vulnerable crunchies like Louise, the online contact who chased me, they have civil service protection. I spent 16 years traumatized by the medical model, another three years patted on the head as an integrated Ridley Township school district token. My mother's lovers liked my tits. I run, dump myself onto Temple's vocational repositories. I sincerely hope my viewers have a more peaceful demise than that which lies in store for me. I cannot close the book on women like Eddy. I'm a quadriplegic over 50. For shit like her, my body, the loneliness in my face, is a banquet of gratuitous indulgence.
I take a risk stating the truth of my psyche: I want Linda Dezenski to suffer brutally for heaping more anguish on my plate than I should have had to bear; it isn't enough for her to die only once, and I'm cognizant enough to see the flag of life long learned masochism in the fact that I keep beating her, mentally, for turning on me, breaking me down because I advertised my personal loyalty as an exclusive commodity.
The Trader Joe's app is fun. If only it could spit me out a good man, one who cared about me enough for the patience of exploration. Off to the store. Meteorology is calling another storm, swirling us about, morbid cocoons.
Case management has been one continuous line of abuse, and no legal rhetoric, nor anything Liberty Resources represents changes that. The coordinators are mostly unattractive women who need an income and get one by behaving like den mothers, close ranks against the suffering and expulsion they generate, and yet, transvestites like Erik, bull dykes like like Nancy, they treat decentralization like a Biblical commandment. Erik, regardless of my animosity, is dying, and how following black Caribbeans around on a leash is better than centralized nursing care, this is not much of a differential
Sure, vulnerable crunchies like Louise, the online contact who chased me, they have civil service protection. I spent 16 years traumatized by the medical model, another three years patted on the head as an integrated Ridley Township school district token. My mother's lovers liked my tits. I run, dump myself onto Temple's vocational repositories. I sincerely hope my viewers have a more peaceful demise than that which lies in store for me. I cannot close the book on women like Eddy. I'm a quadriplegic over 50. For shit like her, my body, the loneliness in my face, is a banquet of gratuitous indulgence.
I take a risk stating the truth of my psyche: I want Linda Dezenski to suffer brutally for heaping more anguish on my plate than I should have had to bear; it isn't enough for her to die only once, and I'm cognizant enough to see the flag of life long learned masochism in the fact that I keep beating her, mentally, for turning on me, breaking me down because I advertised my personal loyalty as an exclusive commodity.
The Trader Joe's app is fun. If only it could spit me out a good man, one who cared about me enough for the patience of exploration. Off to the store. Meteorology is calling another storm, swirling us about, morbid cocoons.
Crack Pipes
The opening of the 09 Pippa confused me at first due to still difficult ABC/WPVI reception, not West's direction. Woman directors tend to take more chances with vicious undercuts, and Rebecca's vintage is no exception. Initially I believed Bello, whom I tend to track through the buried anguish in those almond eyes, was the female lead, but I sorted the three blonds out before Arkin ran decrepitude to ground. Alan Arkin has recycled himself in interesting ways as the man who feels "the dirt in his mouth," but unlike my recent sexual appetites for hale septuagenarians, or the sandpaper smoothness of Jason Beghe (yes, I'd like to fuck the actor in the latest Wolf formula, just as I said in archive), Arkin carries a lizard like repulsion more suited to my distaste for Andie MacDowell. Crush is less chancy than Pippa, but McKay brings us closer to truth about impermanence of human bonds, to find the motif swimming in the undercurrent of a vacant first decade farce.
Linda has her side of the story, my former supervisor. Louise, the detachable Munchkin from the James list (ouch) with whom I stupidly Joanne you stupid fuck became familiar, told me this was confusing--my topic cut into my obsessive, dangerous pain with pongo stick woman. My sister and brother say the same thing about my verves in email. Sometimes this is deliberate, a writer taking chances with fragmentation, and pain. Linda has wiped out many subordinates before me, and the only reason I gained any ground on her is because our breach with each other violated the center's sacred federal mandate, but my posts with so many hints, not only indicate trauma that resets at ground zero of a massive depression, but may leave her vulnerable. Live wire risk, but I want her punished, removed from the center, and compensation for my trauma, knowing full well the trigger, my mental corrosion, is life abuse anguish that she unwittingly made lethal.
She did what she did in response to me mainly without much thought to it, and I pulled on her. Willpower to shut it down when she was really hurting me might have been the better part of impulse control which broke on me, but I cannot turn it back. If I haul Liberty into court, they will castigate my rather obvious fixation. I know this, but if I do nothing next time she will wind up killing another naive asshole. I did confuse her, but that was my subordination to her, fearful of being more forthright.
I am one of those, the one who jumps if an alpha like Linda gave me the height, the altitude. A challenge for white chick resolution films. I am unkind to my own passive recipients like Louise. I did not want knowledge of her brittle bones, and regret that I created the situation for termination, which indicates I'm as fraudulent as Limda, on a smaller scale. The only impact I had on the younger woman was to cease the shared experience interchange, but I had to. The interaction became an obligation rather than a desire, and if my trust was destroyed by real people, her OI wasn't any guarantee of safe harbor. Had she wanted creative writing emulation, I might have reconsidered.
I haven't had sexual intercourse since 1997, angry with the husband for leaving me vulnerable; he neither cared nor had enough time. Maybe you can understand why Linda's voice preening about convulsions with such self satisfaction is still an emotional scourge.
Linda has her side of the story, my former supervisor. Louise, the detachable Munchkin from the James list (ouch) with whom I stupidly Joanne you stupid fuck became familiar, told me this was confusing--my topic cut into my obsessive, dangerous pain with pongo stick woman. My sister and brother say the same thing about my verves in email. Sometimes this is deliberate, a writer taking chances with fragmentation, and pain. Linda has wiped out many subordinates before me, and the only reason I gained any ground on her is because our breach with each other violated the center's sacred federal mandate, but my posts with so many hints, not only indicate trauma that resets at ground zero of a massive depression, but may leave her vulnerable. Live wire risk, but I want her punished, removed from the center, and compensation for my trauma, knowing full well the trigger, my mental corrosion, is life abuse anguish that she unwittingly made lethal.
She did what she did in response to me mainly without much thought to it, and I pulled on her. Willpower to shut it down when she was really hurting me might have been the better part of impulse control which broke on me, but I cannot turn it back. If I haul Liberty into court, they will castigate my rather obvious fixation. I know this, but if I do nothing next time she will wind up killing another naive asshole. I did confuse her, but that was my subordination to her, fearful of being more forthright.
I am one of those, the one who jumps if an alpha like Linda gave me the height, the altitude. A challenge for white chick resolution films. I am unkind to my own passive recipients like Louise. I did not want knowledge of her brittle bones, and regret that I created the situation for termination, which indicates I'm as fraudulent as Limda, on a smaller scale. The only impact I had on the younger woman was to cease the shared experience interchange, but I had to. The interaction became an obligation rather than a desire, and if my trust was destroyed by real people, her OI wasn't any guarantee of safe harbor. Had she wanted creative writing emulation, I might have reconsidered.
I haven't had sexual intercourse since 1997, angry with the husband for leaving me vulnerable; he neither cared nor had enough time. Maybe you can understand why Linda's voice preening about convulsions with such self satisfaction is still an emotional scourge.
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