Pulmonary Obstruction Cycles

"I've had my setbacks too."-- a  technician the dowager will likely never commission again who freely divulged his skepticism with HomeAdvisor.

I wish to clarify what I wrote in Green Room about fundamental inequality. No one is to blame for the hardship imposed by spastic quadriplegia. What is worthy of censure is the religious outcry for our lives which thereafter essentially leaves us on our own beyond a certain point. Google doesn't have to allow me continued use of its AdSense services, for instance, and I created my own difficulty there through the abandon of my LiveJournal account, but I still have an inactive AdSense account with 3 dollars and 45 cents I rightfully earned, even if I am rhetorically otherwise unacceptable. I have no idea if Google still actively supports this pay for play option, but its disability services unit should be able to assist me in transferring that amount over to Shareaholic, or another provider. I cannot be like Leopold Bloom and know everything about software coding. Everyone has limits, intellectually and within pedagogue applications, and thanks to the folly of poorly deployed nepotism, I will be chained to the Commonwealth's dispensed with, and revised notions, of Medicaid Waiver services for the foreseeable future. Everything I've written about it still remains true, even with this paraprofessional and I settled into a begrudging routine, my overwrought awakening stymied. I asked him to tone it down, his attempt to badger me into happiness, and he likes another inner city single mother of two who had a miserable holiday. I cannot live life on a fraudulent buoy which only looks sturdy but is otherwise a filament, and it is entirely permissible for Ross Douthat and the Kathleen Parker's of this world to be equanimous patricians. My outcry isn't over inevitable biological decline. My outcry is over the near continuous disaster brought about by the failure of durable goods, ignorance of the black public housing wardens I have to contend with, like Gail Sims. She is clueless in relation to how stringent state or Commonwealth compliance requirements are, and it is in fact her job to at least have an awareness of the rules. I got paid $25k in the 90s to advocate for my clients out of these insane labyrinths, and now I have to arm wrestle nigger hicks out of the boon docks *shielded*, in the absolutely persuasive contention of Richard Dawkins, by the Presbyterian applied doxology of predestination.
Will I delete this post for a living commission or living wage contract? Certainly. Is it invalid? No. The obstacles I have to continuously surmount are inhumane, and I'm not living in Kabul. Libertarians shouldn't be fearful of examining market weaknesses, but by the same token, progressives need to realize that federated partnerships with nominal Christian denominations funded by established religions needs to come to an end. Presbyterian Homes gets away with murder. I have the right to self-defense, especially as, every time I am nearly ready to launch a genre collection, my survival is mysteriously, rather suddenly, at stake.

Josh Groban's Growth Spurt

You don't know how to talk to people.--nothing the dowager hasn't heard before

My readers may appreciably take comfort in the fact that I have very little formal training in music, as cousin Pamela and I swap tunes as a form of moral support, to discover on my own that I know You Raise Me Up through exposure on commercial radio, and it is this Josh Groban, pitted unequivocally against Brian Greene, and by extension, Feynman:

"It doesn't seem to me that this fantastically marvelous universe...can merely be a stage so that God can watch human beings struggle for good and evil."--Richard Feynman, born 100 years ago today. pic.twitter.com/jBGq68ysWp

— Brian Greene (@bgreene) May 12, 2018

whose atheism Greene is highlighting, who wins the argument. No one can listen to Groban's trembling baritone and not be reminded of our transcendental merger with aspiration, regardless of your faith, or lack thereof. The singer might be a telescopic savant, little knowing that one of my tweets to him, for miserable Pamela's sake, was tongue in cheek, and the public face of popular physics may understand genius enough to distill it to rogues such as I, but listen to Josh, then listen to Greene, and a pathway may be found where neither personality is necessarily in dialectical opposition to the other. Musical compositions are as carefully coordinated as the Hubble telescope, in certain respects, so God may be absent and present just the same, whether in a spiritual or material worldview, as I stray further and further afield into this woman's land mines, with conscious alarm telling me to withdraw while I can, and don't, carrying this woman's pain atop of mine. I owe her mother-in-law as my father's sister, certain loyalties, while neither woman does much to give disability pride a good name, with their respective conditions forming a cesspool of self-pity, with brassy Philadelphia sparks as we wither. I, who am suicidally depressed but for my resilience against it, begin to fear my cousin's wife may kill herself, as she insulates her failing body in recrimination. I, who had a horrific medical life, see Pam's as worse, aside from the fact that sticking my nose in it, as Richard the elder would remind me, supporting Pam is just outside an immediate family concern, while for once, the paraprofessional holding himself off me, just, may find me nodding off in the machine, trying to find the space to work between his scent, and Pam's grip on me as a liferaft, to still work as a writer, taking too much of a toll. He took my hand yesterday, seized it, as no man has ever done, to indicate effect, possession? And I wonder what the hell we're doing, me, maybe 24 months off from returning to medical institutional fodder, and this former factory food processor. Oh, I've had relatively tepid sex with able-bodied men like him, wanted to see if he would be any different, and instead, we're torturing each other in this bizarre ritual where he sees me as woman enough, but it is a sad commentary that a woman of my age has to have grown so old to experience desire conjoined to such care, forging ourselves against each other. No mobile man ever seized my hand like that. It kicked me in the skull like a gulf ball, and in part led to this all nighter, while Pam and I bleached the skeleton in the closet, vibrating with such tenacious despair.

Bared Fangs, Spastic Werewolf Remembers

The issue at stake for humanity is broader than the climate change that is beginning to gain needed attention. -- Carl Folke, Respecting Planetary Boundaries, Chapter 2

Meet the devil incarnate. It blows the dowager's mind that David Ward survives, thrives yet, taught my niece, and can be telephoned, as in Yo, you philandering prick, still want that paper on atheism and ontology I blew off, disappointing your respect in my willingness to wrestle a thesis to its grave? My animosity toward Dr. Ward was an early flag I should have heeded better, sooner, but for my frustrated hormones driving the engine. It is not quite accurate to stipulate that I hated him during my naive quest toward my own genius, whatever that is, still sweeping up the dried dung of my aggravating deceased little black cat, a cat whom I'm grieving as hard if not harder than his beautiful fluff of a teddy brother. So much pain over a pet. But David Ward exemplifies everything I hate about progressive liberal sensibilities. If you are wondering why Jerry McGuire, (who I actually called by his first name) and Michael Clark, David's former colleagues, are spared the wrath of my overbite, that is a more complex question. The hippie aroused me, and Michael, who is presumably mostly skeletal at this stage of the second decade of his death, is the husband I might have married making me more in line with Aunt Mary. If I do not post a great deal of detail about Mary, who has survived my mother's death age by one year so far, there are reasons for that, namely that our accounts are linked on twitter, secondly, she was a Catholic principal and she'd kill me, if you catch my drift, but thirdly, she accomplished what the spastic dowager didn't, and this deserves respect. David Ward, on the other hand, would have been drawn and quartered in Foucault's medieval examples of criminal torture, and I am rather antagonistic toward his memory, though he looks better minus that bloody beard. He had jet black hair in the day, and the best way to describe him is as a lecherous porcine trickster from whom I should have given berth. He was one of the earliest authority figures to hint at clinical depression, with that cocked eyebrow expression suggesting do something about it. So when Erik, demigod of ADAPT, worn out with me on his couch. diagnosed me with the same eyebrow cock, the superimposed memory between the philanderer and the almost -transsexual, now merely a skin and bone Dr. Seuss, suggests affinity of anathema.

The dowager is cognizant of the fact, that while Nick Denton did not engage her in any fashion, he allowed her to use Gawker's tools. He did not judge me as I judge him and Peter Thiel both. If Jerry was here with me, his reprimand of my livid disgust would hurt, tangibly, and Ward would give me that cocked eyebrow, but it is due to boomers like Ward that such evil continues to perpetuate itself, that humanity has lost its compass, that Islamic terrorism learned from the IRA playbook, that transhumanism is on the verge of making things worse. Through the approximately 8 years my persona has been posting, much of what she has been doing was game theory according to her rules, not the CIA whiff of great sex with Victor Garber in Alias. I am still too much the cripple in her own head to repudiate Denton entirely. I liked Gawker. I'd like to kick Thiel's ass, and the light has dawned on me as to the utilitarian value of Roman crucifixion. And that is not good enough, of course. It is rhetorical hyperbole that a nigger lover garnished my sympathy, and a gay libertarian has me burning mad, and I mostly want to vomit.

My non-fiction collection will be lengthier than first assumed, but the formatting, the revisions, the possibility of retyping an entire hard draft into it makes catering to influenza seem nearly like a vital excuse. While I am not a great admirer of David Brooks, and mailed him that sentiment, I too, have lost a little bit of my soul, to echo his Friday analysis. I'm dispirited. I want to fight with professors, bury Paul Krugman in Donald Trump's cemetery tomb, replace Lenin's waxed body with Hillary. No one would notice.