Digitalis

This is all I know, so far: AdSense, which is Shareaholic's derivative model, is a fee for profit advertising service. The account holder pays a fee, and receives a pay out for every 10 dollar accrual. I am far less clear about Ad Words, other than I have agreed to pay Google for the clicks. What the dowager gets out of it, as an improvised individual desperate upon desperate for a needed change, is entirely unknown. I can afford to allow the search giant to profiteer off my posts for one billing, and if I get nothing, then I'll cancel the campaign. but I am telling Google publicly, right now, that I may have softened my vehemence decibel, but my anger will never be entirely diminished. Everyone has a side, spanning the gamut, from Jewish supervisors to building managers, but I have 33 years of a hostile environment with exactly the same landlord under which I am a crime victim, repetitively. For those of you with better mobility, you believe you could live with this without disparagement?
Better than a shelter? Not by all that much, as I've dealt with shelter clients at Project Share, and it seems to make little difference whose rod is on their spine, the housing authority or the shelter managers. In addition to which, and this is my failure, alone, I let spend down methodologies evaporate my savings, savings which, if I do survive past 65, I needed. I literally have nothing, bar one, I frightened Presby's corporate office with the liability I have on them. That's it, that, and my 50,000 dollar education which garnished me a return somewhere in the neighborhood of 80k before taxes, roughly estimated. 

There is no discernible difference to this valiantly active domain, not yet, but the masses love the virtue of patience.

----------
Update: this was a failure of comprehension. No more ad words. The charge will be insubstantial. Notice all the help I am getting attempting to monetize my work, sigh.

Bad Hash Browns

I am sitting here, certification deadline looming, and if I have any regular readers at all, you'd say, stay in section 202 another year, let Presby kick you out, don't be so destructive and put yourself in jeopardy, and I'm surfing around, trying to monetize my rage that I put seven years into. I doubt Google's Alphabet will allow me to reopen my AdSense account. Leaving me alone, short of giving you a hit list of whom, when, where-- this is one thing. Letting me make money on stark negativity is another, but these posts are seven years of work, and I've poured my heart and passion into much of it. Some archive material needs polish, and I need more real data pursuit, but still, I am writing for nothing because a Silicon behemoth is alarmed at the depth of my parceled tranches. Before I lose it in my favourites, to use Niume's English pasteurized variation, Pimdell's lazy rehash for the Globe illustrates that Trump's base has a point: This opinion piece is wrapping for fish and chips; it does nothing for journos who've been on the track. 

Hard Analysis Halt

"Stendhal and Sartre, curious choice,"-- Simenon's dialogue

Blogger never conveyed to me in explicit terms that I could no longer monetize this account through reactivation of AdSense. When I did post to the forums, my quandary apparently wasn't clear to computer literate users. They asked if I had an account. Yes. Inactive, because I was a doofus in initially experimenting with LiveJournal, which ended its partnership with Google's services. I earned a whopping 3.49 cents, and there it sits. I have tried repeated to figure out how to reactivate AdSense with this domain-- though not recently.

I could scrub out my biting temperament and remove the adult content flag. As most of you know, I am more stodgy than explicitly graphic, and even if I wanted to incite in a direct one on one ratio, I'd more than likely just get my ass kicked. The unfortunate bastard elect, who rode the gravy train of my vitriol, can get away with it. I can't, for obvious reasons, as advocating violence pushes boundary lines, and my intellectual pride, most of the time, says invective is beneath me, and even if I pushed and got away with it, I'd have to live with the results, which Donald Trump seems unwilling to do, or is perhaps incapable of doing, taking responsibility for his gut reactions. I'm not quite positive, if I suggest X, and Y followed, that I would not bring Satan into being, but by the same token, I am naturally inclined toward anarchy as something worth experiencing, life on full throttle.

Just not all of the time. Leading me to the perplexity of being always over-extended. If I go to Niume News, I'd get even slower, unless I break up with Blogger, and archive this eclectic thesis for something more topical, policy oriented, at least in an imitation of decency, though I'm already subversively thinking about calling it "The Dump," punning on old age obsession with shitting successfully. [Who really cares if I triumph over anxiety and entropy with commode discharges which avert disaster?]

I am a bit pissed, that in my effort to distangle disability center trauma, I have no choice but to cope with the reality of what is now true physical decline, and no, it simply is not fair. I not only have to live with a criminally negligent landlord and disability "activists" with no ethics, but now the unalterable ravage of the flesh. 32 years of my failure to change this environment and circumstance has taken its toll. I do not, at least technically, have to abandon Disability Arts, but I'd be forced to let it slumber to attempt other interests, even if changing my spots might have a dubious outcome. Simenon seems to imply that Stendhal and Sartre are incompatible, or had a precognitive insight into the spastic dowager's creation. It is perfectly legitimate to see Stendhal as a synchronic gateway to phenomenology.

Inveterate Malice

If I was as ruthless as Peter Thiel, I'd give blogger up. I cannot restart my adsense account because I don't know how to reopen it and don't know either how to utilize Google Forums to get where I need to be, don't see many bloggers who are self funding in these particular domains, I wield my tongue like a volcanic lash, and defied terms of service guidelines to be illegal, and did not tone it down because of a law firm threat, but because I probably am not going to see sunrise at 60. Yet I'm here every day, starving, trying to keep father's resources at bay, but the way to do that is to cease talking to the Aunt. She forces the drifting family patriarch who made me his executor to assist me; it isn't right. Padre has a right to some peace. I found my way back to Beacon through the Levy's Writer's Block none of us use, going to try Beacon again, but I am far too tired to post, even as I realize, to my amazement, that I am giving the building manager the solution she seeks. Fear for my survival is not enough to keep me here in Riverside Presbyterian. There is no respect for the authority of Trudy Richardson, and I treat her in inveterate fashion, living here with so many episodic crises, I need to at least make the attempt to leave, even if social media isn't fully attuned to my subtext.

It may surprise you to learn I am civil to a few of the younger minorities, like Amneshia, a collegiate age guard. She said to me "I would do it (give your notice)," as I've been unhappy a very long time; from what she knows of my story, even she feels corporate should give me the damn transfer. My readers who have read enough to know the gist could telephone Spring Mills and say give the poor spastic what she needs. What is a telephone call?

610-834-1001

I go over Richardson's head now, taunting the dezins of the domestic in Montgomery County, my rancor very much equal opportunity. I hissed into a Vice-President's voicemail fearlessly, threatening institutional duress. For one of such slender means I really buy into my role as the mafia don with cojones on the cunt. I just wrote cunt and made myself an imagined hermaphrodite, which is why Google corporate washes its hands, in part.

I am really angry at Petter Thiel, for the thing itself, but also have much thinking to do. Have a good morning. I have to pack in a bit early.

Intrinsic Predatory Stance

I paid Google, fool that I am, for 24 months with this domain, whether or not I should tell you that, and I'll be incredibly lucky to still be posting that long, unsure if Blogger is penalizing me for my mouth with Adsense or if I just don't know how to link the damn domain back into the ad account. I have to get a customer rep on the phone, and try to promise not to get gunned down for sedition. I am simply a clever twist on the conventional quadriplegic, not the dazzling American right wing militia; symptomatic of how much I've changed, however, the FBI's justification for the kill shot to Finicum doesn't sit well with me, not that I am prepared to gnaw that bone at the moment. I feel that no matter what I do my life is finished, and Presbyterian Homes won. I lost, because my rage toward the corporation is destroying whatever cardiovascular durability I've left, and if I give my notice they've just won faster, because I do not know if I can tap dance my way into any temporary security, and my emotional pain over this is killing me. I hope most of you are better fortified.

Prison, with a shockingly young Viggo Mortensen, is actually a viscerally frightening horror film, vis-a-vis the template body snatchers formula which mushroomed into enough cheap films in order to torture the poor. It works, for me, due to the spiritual habitation of place, and its malevolent vengeance intersecting with blood guilt, just on the edge enough to remain entertaining, and utilizing African intuitive links to the totem to give the grotesque body dysmorphia a tangible quality which makes you want to keep pace. Like District 9, this late Reagan vehicle transcends its tricks. Few in its family tree do. Viggo just has that face, like a grimaced pole cat. My right leg is numb, domestic terrorist spinster extraordinaire. I did not create this account to whine, but I've taken alot out of myself this winter, and need a solution.

Savant Density

As far as I can tell, in terms of Google Blogger services, I still have an inactive AdSense account, and would like to reactivate it, except I do not know how. Since my purchase of a domain against those who object to how I push with my reactive dips into psychic negation, I do not have an earnings tab, at least not that I can see in settings, and I'm not sure what Google customer service agents will tell me if I contact them next week to buy in again since my departure from LiveJournal. 

I entertain the idea of asking my Libertarian adoptees for assistance, but that presumes Blogger will permit me to have ads despite my dim view of civilization. I suppose I'll have to telephone the company and see what's what. I could leave Blogger, but know I would not fare much better on other host services, though I only skirt the edges of blood, gore, radiation poisoning and plastique manufacture for explosive ordinance; of course I am not being serious, not in this post, about thriving in the violence of guerrilla warfare, unlike Michael Caine in The Quiet American, but I should know how to navigate through simple things like re-monetizing my damn account. Unlike Van Johnson in The End of the Affair, Michael Caine is suitably pathetic as Greene's callous journalist, Tom Fowler. Brendan Fraser, however, looks like a Clark Kent beefsteak. Perhaps he was supposed to, serving as a contrast to the wan Vietnamese amputated like fish sticks. Why do they always have to kill the loyal and loving dog? Directors do that, exposing the heartless developing world.

Should we kill the psychopaths of animal cruelty? Should Halle Berry's character in Losing Isaiah have been vindicated? I do not remember what Jackson did as the lawyer to persuade the court to overturn the adoption, but it was never made clear how it was discovered that Isaiah as a crack baby was Halle's dumpster guilt to begin with. Who the hell was supposed to know? My sympathies were for the conscientious Caucasians that Strathaim and Lange represented, the Hollywood version of the Clintonesque middle class which doesn't exist. Certainly not for Catholics.

If Almighty Google, which undoubtedly is now hardwired in every row home and apartment complex over one story, allows me to monetize again, I am not under any illusions that my ... what the fuck are you... viewers? My family having a heart attack every time fecal matter becomes a predominant motif? An audience? I'd doubt you'd click enough to provide much more of a supplement than what I earned at Examiner, but at least I could afford the yearly fee for the domain until the welfare state tortures me to my grave. Odds are it will, bad parenting and all. Government needs to get out of the business of child protection services, and progressive Innocence Project lawyers have their own blinders.

Too much trash television: I saw one of those American Justice episodes where three or four low IQ blacks gunned down a more stringent black couple who tried to foster boys who would go onto car jacking anyway, and all holy shit was raised over a platypus named Darren Wilson, who went with the guy with the low IQ and was implicated in the felony murder. The defense lawyer who took the appeal to get Wilson off death row said the blood on the shorts wasn't that of the deceased, and since Wilson was asleep in an alcoholic stupor during the killing, that he was innocent. Maybe this was Illinois, which is the Midwest. 

Never have I seen liberalism go on such a crusade for such a sorry ass mother fucker as Darren, who took absolutely no responsibility for what the violently predisposed brother did to these black business owners. Moral culpability still applies, exactly the same as it would if anarchists bonded with me and knew I was up to something if I wanted to go after the pathological bigots who took such a toll on my economic security. If I had a crew that knew I had intent, in other words, they'd still be accessories even if they did not aid me in my vendetta. The more attention I give to criminal litigation, the less faith I have in it, even as I never went after my rental agent, nor a breach of contract settlement for myself.

It isn't that I am not *over* the immediate psychological damage perpetrated on me by the center between 99 and 07, but the blows have taken tolls which cannot be undone, and it is unlikely I'll find patrons to protect and get me out of Riverside, as I weaken steadily.

On Notice

Even Google is confused about their account services. They sent what I presume was a mass mail saying adult content monetization is prohibited. I am always screwed, one way or another. I signed onto  LiveJournal because I was late to trying my hand at web logs, and I found LJ to be a poor resource site; again, and I suppose, with misguided enthusiasm, I paid into the Adsense application anyway, believing in my own skill. I paid in 38 dollars. Then LJ's Slavic contingent balked; the community stopped supporting the app. I came here, still with no idea how to link Adsense to my particular Blogger code, and now I am being hounded about porn, which in my first post, I conveyed I don't utilize.

I have no ads. I have no support, no adviser on creating a website for promotion. All I managed to do was link Blogger to kindle on Amazon, and that without a header. I concede this is not a deliberate conspiracy. The search engine giant doesn't care about spastic's war wounds, but I have not successfully navigated Google's services, should have never gone near LiveJournal, and with all this content I have written, now what?

I have three dollars and change I cannot collect in an AdSense account, three years of posts. Maybe we should all follow Snowden's itinerary. If Google removes my account on Sunday, I don't know where I go from there.

I'm tired of always butting my head, coming back with contusions.