Gillespie’s Oblique Defense of #MeToo

A friend says Chris Janson's 'Take a Drunk Girl Home' perpetuates rape culture even as it appears to attack it. She think it implies sexual assault can be accepted or even excused during "boyhood."  What do you think? https://t.co/YzIku4jvhS@BroadusErinn

— Nick Gillespie (@nickgillespie) August 5, 2018

My sudden surge of page views from Ukraine at the mention of Mawson Dave may have led to a certain Slavic misapprehension. In reference to my last post, I was not indicating my approval of Dave’s work with Syrian relief efforts, only that this low key social media user was more on par with an affinity in terms personal attractiveness over and above my present-day direct care worker, nor am I attempting to ostracize him beyond anything other than the usual digital dissonance making me feel worse for the inability to connect, as opposed to its inverse: I am alone in this near total new found helpless and lack of control, my limbs now beginning to tremble, and Mawson came and went beyond my ability to fathom, tainted around the edges with a tinge of suspicion. I may have earned some brownie points with ant-war humanists in my earlier posts when the out-lying areas around Damascus were beginning to slip beyond Assad's control, but the realities of Hezbollah and ISIS at each other’s throats, with the Russian army engaged in strategic asset protection, does nothing to restore geopolitical stability, or raise the ghosts of massacres, such as that in Hama, under the father. Barely governable deserts are a mirage of benevolent compassion, at least when we examine the number of expendable citizens in the name of authority and power. If the al-Assad regime didn't lose credibility in my pulsating cerebral student days, at this point the current regime is a mere marionette. I give it up, allow it to evaporate within the current administration's disciplinary maneuvers against chemical attacks. It led to the martyrdom of Mevlut Mert, the futile murder of a Russian ambassador, and why we even characterize it as a civil war at this stage is beyond me.

I take some issue with the student's Quora post that Putin wants "a multi-polar world". The Georgian conflict, the backing of the separatists in Ukraine, these are pacification efforts even in the newfound disorder of a kleptocracy.  Against this backdrop, my additional acquisition of Muslim accounts beyond my remaining Turkish followers was done so with unease, inclusive of a Saudi princess named M, who wisely only tweeted hello. What she offers to me in terms of perspective remains inexplicable. I surmise, however, that the gateway account for these Islamic followers is Angela Stewart, a reasonable facsimile of  a moderate medical paradigm progressive, even as I finally lit a short fuse with Reason and Nick Gillespie, the expanse man of all causes. I pushed back against the columnist above in relation to women and personal conduct, and this is not blaming the victim. If I had told my direct care worker in April not to fondle me out of pity, I could have let him go before we bonded in this semi-aquatic fashion of the familial and the erotic in which I always lose. In the mechanical essence of it, sexual intimacy with him would be a mere ineluctable progression, but also an act of self-hatred, romantic inclinations dead but dead alive, one and the same. Every time he clocks out I hope I never see him again, I don't believe in it, us, his limited ability to apply himself, the fatalistic indifference to Ralph Ellison, for instance, and the novelist's influence on Obama.

Toxins in the Feminine Figure Beneath the Appeasement of Tovah Feldshuh's Command

"They have the right to live," Axel Steier, a Mission Lifeline founder, said of the migrants.

Do they now? There is not a high profile government official on the face of the earth, not even Kim Jong Un, who denies basic human rights, with the colorful Duterte being a quickly superimposed afterthought, in terms of being a (refreshing) exception. The dowager might not be so bemused if she had to live under Rodrigo's charming apologia for brutality, but pauses to reflect that Philadelphia's regime has no discernible difference against Filipino distributive poverty median. If life turns pretty cheaply for the vast majority of the world's estimated 4.5 billion Asians, it is merely a reflection of our evolutionary bottleneck crisis still at play, the mayoralty of this city like so much shuffleboard, at least since the Rizzo family relinquished power. The key center city districts, like my ward, 187, have the concentrated opulence of high finance and gentrification via condominiums. The residential neighborhoods are territoriality marked by fried chicken franchises, regardless of the name we draw in the raffle: Wilson Goode, John Street, Ed Rendell, once the potential scourge of gun manufacturers, Michael Nutter, and even Jim Kenney, his soda tax jeopardizing retail establishments in an already poor city, doesn't change this dynamic. The evolution of money, the concentration of wealth like spokes on a wheel surrounding city hall, by implication, are far more important than dying city residents transported to dialysis treatment at 7 am. Or a woman with cerebral palsy being beaten to a pulp by systemic corruption, all the sudden, and necessarily, bending over backward for a care worker to whom she was, however briefly, more erotically inclined than she was to Tim Artis, her other long standing passive minority who was paid out of pocket. Just because the game of an interpersonal relationship is a lie without legs beyond her acquiescence to Medicaid's contract doesn't mean she cannot be hurt. She was Monday, another indefatigable blow, even if counseled not to compare her quadriplegic physique to an able-bodied woman walking her dog. Well defined buttocks win every time over the buddy girl aroused, then burnt back down to carbon, and this cycle will repeat, indefinitely, unless I bolt, for more of the same, endless misery, and I don't have the stamina to hire, fire, another 50 people I do not even want in my personal space.
My cousin thinks he cares about me enough that this is  "real". But I knew from our fight at the end of April what I forced him to tell me was the brute honesty: I am only tempting enough for him to struggle not to sleep with me, and I do not have the ability to transcend what the malformations of this city have scarred on me not to relegate him, despite, despite the woman in me who keeps sounding if he really cares. Not enough not to smote me where it counts. Fine, but all of this is draining me, a mere shell of my former self, hardly in the grip of Locklear's crisis, as much fading relevance as her loss of control due to substance abuse?

I am less diffident about Salvation now that it is back on air, relieved to have a show to follow with a degree of eagerness. The series was put into production too early to forecast Trumpian politics. Indeed, Tovah's evergreen character actor carry over, from Danielle Melnick the crusader, to Danielle Melnick holding the strands at the end of the world, may have anticipated a Clinton administration in error, with Sasha Ruiz merely the usurper who has to be defeated, a Trumpian villain whose path to the presidency can be blamed on Hugh Hefner, Charles Krauthammer, and Bill Clinton, depending on which columnist's byline is in stroke recovery, but Salvation, nevertheless, feels like the industry is throwing a bone to the cops: be a good electorate now, we put a woman in charge handling the asteroid, the Russians, and cyberterrorists! And we gave her a Libertarian (Tanz) to elevate to the Vice Presidency! My right to life, meanwhile, lurches on mission creep. 

Osteoporosis on A Metronome Beat

It could always be worse. -- Dana, a precursor to my current stomping testosterone laborer

I suppose I can live with it after all, that a man’s mistake led to a brief uproar and the inevitable retrenchment, so much intense back and forth. The service coordinator, once my title also, frightened me into an essential resignation, ashes in the sandbox, the oxygen and energy sucked out of me by my despairing cousin; if Galahad and I are chameleons, one moment a simulation of a couple, the next two worn out individuals who’ve time lapsed half a century, Monday had a tinge of a high school pep rally, as if he could charge at my shrieking and tremulous physique like a point guard. My cousin’s misery makes my emptiness seem relatively infinitesimal. My cynical, callous side resents her for it, but her situation is as equally a teaching tool. She married twice, the one she’s in now with my blood relative fractured by hideous wounds, which, for once, out of personal loyalty, the dowager shall not reveal, if otherwise to be burdened with tight-knit bond through text only. I, by contrast, never married, and there is nothing ironclad about a future abandonment between this man and I.

I did blink first, and was going to withdraw from his employer, my current provider, but I’d have to fend off inquiries, and my departure would have been because we did not violate the rules altogether, and intercourse now carries too many riders, almost an afterthought. I never really had him. The fellow simply hasn’t been laid for 15 months. The last date I was in my fiancé’s bed is beyond my memory, 2006? The care worker found it incredible, and there, Pam and I have a bond. She and Bill abstain, from what inferences she offers. This you may know, which means I don’t care enough if it gets read and I land on even more familial estrangement (my half-brother). My sister-in-law and I had an unforgiving quarrel on Facebook, giving me insight, therefore, about social media creating its own news. It finally happened to me, with my nephew sleeping in his car while his trollop mother parades her granddaughter, his child, like a trophy. Dawn, my brother’s wife, is forever high school trailer trash, but look who’s talking, my aspirations defeated by a former Walmart cargo-handler. I was, of course, going to go into racial epithet mode, then considered the racer from Nederland, which is in Colorado. I owe the man an apology for thinking he was actually native African. No harm. Speed is a drug, like Mia Farrow’s kidney-stone liberalism.

In comparison to my barren womb, my cousin has two children. She owns her home. I own nothing, and yet I’m so much stronger than this whining, self-pitying bitch, so much so that I offered to put myself in the middle, see if I can suture her marriage into healing, drawing her and Bill out with a couple-friends dynamic. She’s afraid I’ll spill her secrets, like Meyer’s blood guilt driving the visions of his conscience, sans Match Point.

What Allen asks in this film is to consider the price of adulation over and above desire, but he does not expiate himself, distastefully trapping Scarlett Johansson as a situational victim because she gave in to an unhappy husband, simply through association, with her own parallel relationship discord. Allen loyalists deem his capture of Soon-yi to be creepy. Galahad is of the opinion that it was sick, and I'm inclined to agree. There was no letter of the law crime, but he fell on the sword against his own backlash with the mortality counter, condensing his time. It doesn't seem to make Mia any more sympathetic, curiously, hiding, as she does, as a leftist in mortal combat. Is my gratitude toward Galahad a blinder, after a fashion? Given my history as a victim of black dysfunction, our sparring match over what is genuine and isn't has been remarkable. I know him better than I ever did Frank, but he's still a shackle in a sandpit, and my mortal coil has a ton of work to do.

If I remain loyal, contrary to my inclination, and he finds other employ, a woman? I've been writing the script of an ugly, stark, care giver's murder for a long time. I may have mentioned it, even.

Matters of Life and Death in an Aide de Camp

It's not your business -- a nursing aide in his degree of over-involvement

David Niven would decease just shy of a decade after starring in Vampira, a mindless piece of camp the dowager took solace from despite Prime's superfluous generosity, her bad leg an unremitting source of discomfort. Not a matinee idol of my time, he nevertheless radiates the humanism of the British Empire at its finest, cheapening himself in the decade of me, the decade of youth, with herein a breast and curvature patriarchal fantasy quite worthy of Hugh Hefner, who lasted with remarkable tnacity into the digital era. Beneath its superficiality, however, Vampira does for Niven what Assassination Tango does for Duvall with its much weightier center of gravity, allowing old dogs the assurance of relevance. Whatever feminine critics might say of the opening kill shot of the babette while the tourists wade in on the joke, Duvall plays the same game with December-male trophy status as Niven's handlers do 28 years before, scoring a few bimbo points on cross-ethnic sexual intimacy to boot, while the dowager misses making her own coffee, being alone and sleeping until six pm if she wishes, her surly breast desirous of making her male paraprofessional go away. Right now I don't feel like characterizing him through a pseudonym. I just want him to find another job and get the fuck out of my life, despite his sensitivity to my humiliation and my constant inquiry about my feelings and even unanticipated sparring matches. I can eject myself, at considerable inconvenience, as I've written, but it will be more for the worse.

I did an idiotic thing, and told him about Tassoni, buried in my archives, the instances of my Tassoni episodes, and to my utter chagrin, Galahad friended John on my phone, and more bloody awful still, John friended me back. Who wants the past tense of bittersweet losses to of a sudden have contemporary currency? I've posted things here about my undergraduate life which would undoubtedly antagonize the man I never got over, in this half-quasi sing song space with a minority who went one or two quarters with me towards the finish line of a turbulent spring. As I've also written, I am not huge on Facebook virtues, don't do selfies or announce events or floral arrangements, instead grilling my way into a fabulous family annihilator, but nevertheless, John and I are in feed, because I let a hip hop minstrel tap dance on my memories of the deepest longing for another Italian American I ever had. What the fuck is it with men? Act, don't reflect, never mind mortification, a way of stating you're saying fuck you and help me at the same time, remember? I epigrammed his 2002 email, and suggested he and Galahad could bromance on their respective tie-in, namely me. Yes, I am furious, and said I love you, now a second time, to a man passionately insisting he isn't my boyfriend.
You must remember this, a kiss is but a kiss. Judy Dench may offer up the inference that it's all in the incipient detail of domestic charms. God save the Queen.

Kimmy's Mouse Under The Oven

Even if I wanted to go roll onto my mattress, I would not get much sleep. Discounting my bedridden helplessness throughout October and much of November, this is my fourth or fifth major accident to date in my ever encroaching bands of constriction, a brief speculation about being afflicted with Typhus flickers in my mind, one of the first really clever articles I ever read in The New Republic, or perhaps meningitis. He handles it as well as anyone can, my larger than life attendant who rolls in in the morning hyped on sugar and spouting astrology and numerology and I nod my head what the fuck do I care why do I want to sleep with this asshole? It is an interesting form of African American liberation heresy, reading the signs as a method to comprehend the happenstance of material events, though it is equally true I believe in my traits being born as an Aquarius, the water-bearer, and he seems to have a natural aptitude for this pseudo-science, the gargantuan I now characterize as Galahad. I have only treated him as well as I have, to date, for the temptation of his physique, and while my need has not quite been vanquished, I am too sore these days, we’ve grown too familiar to freshen it, argue like a couple on the wane. The evening I could have fully kissed him is bygone, so why am I milking it to the mundane even as Charles Krauthammer celebrates life to his last hours? “No no no,” I exclaimed at the super-phone Friday shortly before the traditional supper hour, rocking back and fourth in my equally supped up chair, and the boy man hugged me as he saw my face crater, but I am growing weary of nigger gallantry, no offense to the African who recently came to my feed. I am merely taking comfort in doing what I do, trolling to make people genuflect away from me. This is my coping mechanism, allowing red meat to diminish the fineness of my acumen, actually not so fine anymore, since words like colossal no longer readily spring to mind. And Charles is a colossus, larger than life, whether in effigy or as adversary or in alliance, the psychiatrist who jumped ship, abandoned faith in medical model classification to become the guardian of the right thing to do, the right policy to pursue. In print, he was too hard, and I was slow toward any empathetic agreement, not being a true conservative, and Galahad is heartened by my determination to restore my merit, to find a way to fill the shoes Krauthammer leaves behind, me, the little whiff of angry vulgarity. I told Galahad I had a suicide plan. “Go ahead, turn me in,” I said. “Make it worse.” Don’t tell me what it is.

Anthony Bourdain only has the silence of what forensic science chooses to reveal. He was a delight to listen to in his television appearances. Sorrow is the right keynote to feel, and in my verve to the alternate path, I need your prayers to use my mind to regain my own control. I weep, and offer them to you in turn, as I plot to get this diaper off, soiled in despair. Pray for me. At the very least, Trump could fly my anus over North Korea, nourishing alternative food sources, or giving Kim dysentery. Not specious enough? I’m not strong enough this morning.

Pissing Once or Twice on Palace Intrigue

"Woman, if you don't shut up I'll clock out and go home!"-- over an alteration about Hahnemann

Presuming I do not regain a modicum of the lateral transfer ability I had in September, I do not know where I go from here. My intelligence can only do so much, and though I’ve written before that suicides within the disabled community contravene everything positive about empowerment modules and their mantras, beyond a certain point there is only so much an impoverished, embattled warrior can take, in the feasible sense. My serious consideration towards walking out on Galahad’s provider has been braked temporarily, due to the unanticipated descent of a service coordinator asking moronic, unintentionally cruel questions about my medical comprehension. The regulatory paradigm under which Medicaid Waiver services operate in the Commonwealth today defeats the very purpose of rehabilitation law, as I reap the thrall of domestic discord without the compensation of actually being a girlfriend, his display of temper over something as innocuous as changing a medical appointment had the unintentional effect of reigniting my desire, and I put my despondency aside, temporarily, not giving a fuck about his neighbor and the sale of coffee in the least. The infuriated black male punching my thigh softly with his frustration, this was another matter, even as I pronged Mr. Paine about my moral obligation to continue on in such a fashion, my control now as nil as the lesser spastics once under my authority. Then it struck me that I had probable suspects for Paine’s identity, simply by virtue of being a failed writer who pays attention to too many  journalists, and proving my speculative target may at least bear the measure of a mild scoop.

When the aggregator at the helm True Pundit tweets his mind, it is a rather fascinating recycling of Deep Throat, even as I remain skeptical about what he thinks he knows about those in the highest echelons of power.

Insiders like Flynn, Gritz and myself -- we simply know too much. Things that if and when they become public will DWARF anything in the current news cycle. I can guarantee we're ALL -- separately -- prepping to open up cans of worms you wouldn't imagine. Many wheels in motion.

— Thomas Paine (@Thomas1774Paine) June 3, 2018

Governments are, by and large, about taxation, procurement, distribution, and enforcement, and through these methods, maintaining social order, with varying degrees of success. I reminded him, with a mild retort, that corruption, lack thereof, and or intelligence, which is primarily collected to restrain and thwart the goals of adversaries, has little effect on our daily lives, controlled by so many requirements and processes. Certainly, Flynn and Gritz may know things which keep the Pentagon brass awake at night, but all it might take is a Pakistani corporal having a bad day with a warhead to make Kashmir ground zero for a third world war. How is this relevant to those barely aloft? Nick Gillespie attributes Kate Spade’s despair to mental illness. From my vantage point, barely able to clean myself in soiled paper underwear, if you want to cut it short, perhaps the desire should be respected. If I can still persuade Galahad to make love with me one day, I am no longer sure what it would be, if it would destroy something, propel us forward? If I leave him, in a spiteful rebuff, it may close a final door. The first day I set eyes on him, I made the assumption we’d be a failure within 72 hours. In 10 weeks, we’re all but functioning like a common law couple, inextricably bound by a social medical model I’d annihilate in a meltdown, without a second thought. If I regain a percentage of my former ability, would I be so keen on him? Am I only fooling myself, subdued under his egress to the point of desiring to give him a child? Empires were once made with less, in Yogi Berra’s infamous solecism, it ain’t over, until it’s over, fearing, as I do, I’ll not be strong enough to secure my work, and this is where my appeal to libertarians like Austin will shortly come into play.

Burton’s Antony, Elizabeth’s Cleopatra & a Ground Run at the Crust

Their tumultuous liaison-- before the marriages and divorces-- famously began in 1962 on the set of the colossally over-budget epic, Cleopatra.--Liz Ronk

Although my new found old age presently puts this to the test, I was never much one for the feminine accouterments of vanity, and unlike my mood challenged cousin, I rather shirk the effort when it comes to daily appointments with cosmetologists. My hair, though otherwise unknotted thanks to temporary fill ins prior to my current depth charges in search of authenticity, hangs unpleasantly silver white, thinning and unruly, and I can hardly afford to be fashion conscious, so I have no idea who Kate Spade is. My only indicator toward rancor is for the 13 year old daughter, as thirteen was also a traumatic year for me. But if I wrote in my post above that we should learn to accept the consequences of obdurate suffering, the flip side of the coin is it is relatively unimaginable that her privilege wasn’t worth combating whatever her problems amounted to. Philadelphia’s oozing ineptitude is like one long string of rock candy ruthlessly blistering my esophagus, one calamity after the next, my interpersonal space all but barren of any meaning unless you include the endless revolving door of minorities whom I’ve despised (and what does Galahad do with this truism, pray tell?), and here a fashion guru engages in a violent act of dramaturgy which give women of her mindset pause. Fuck the mental illness caveat. The majority of those who adhesive themselves to psychiatric disorders tarry on like the rest of us, oftentimes micromanaged by the welfare state with the same degree of competence I’ve gotten since my 1996 resignation. Financial difficulties, divorce? None of these things would have landed her where the majority of spastic savants land, sinking in quicksand. One can only imagine what anguish drove her to her cessation. In my case, you don’t. Interspersed throughout my threads since I came to Blogger was the outcry I have nothing left. This now includes lack of control over my mobility, and although my focus has condensed on this male nursing aide, now joined in my default conspiracy, to the point that preoccupation seems obsessive, my vulnerability fraught with being damned again, it isn’t so much that he’s another unobtainable male inadvertently reeled in and driven back, not quite. It is merely that he represents what Frank Versante should have been for me: a middle-aged relationship worth settling for, one that died in a flash fire and yet remains binding, at least, as long as I stay put. He has been both, conflicted and hard on me, seducing and diffident, fearful too. In so many words, I told him, jokingly, that if his hands got near my cherry, then I would be staking a claim, with one of my winsome smiles. He now behaves as if my vagina was a radioactive mine. I happen to find it amusing. Nonetheless, whatever I think I still feel, or trying to calculate what he does for me, I will eventually cut the cord. I forgive him for, well, our foreplay. He forgives me, for both the foreplay and my hard slash into the social stigma of a white cripple and a black lover who isn’t her lover, yet, but I am not one who blissfully buries her dead. He woke up my sensuality, left it in midair, and I’m not having it. Necessity merely demands a hold on the end game. And now I’m off to bed, as promised.

Galahad's Love

When a player got zero point, it’s called ‘love’. Although the theory is often heard that it represents the French word l'oeuf, meaning 'an egg' (from the resemblance between an egg and a zero) this seems unlikely. "Love" means zero. In tennis, the server's score is given first, so "love-fifteen" means the server has no points, the opponent has fifteen.--Quora

I am going to get into trouble here if the real time medical professionals who have waltzed in and out of my technological catastrophe since November chance upon this account and put two and two together, and I need no more grief than my life has already purchased, merci beaucoup, nevertheless, the care giver and his patient, within a week of dive bombing each other, came within a milometer of engaging in sexual intercourse on a hospital bed whose electronics might have been damaged in the process, and it certainly isn't the hottest contact I ever had, but riveting suits, and after he clocks out, I pace the studio like a caged jaguar for any length of time, then he takes over at 11 am, like a panther, and I fall in love with this gargantuan magnanimity of his a little further each day. We have battled. He has given me truths I thought I needed to hear: if I leave this agency then it's over, right? He nods, but then we're back on the trampoline. I've lashed myself like any worthwhile Catholic ascetic, swung my own metronome back and forth, lashed out in my posts here. It is pointless. I'm in love with him. He has ignored my requests to retreat when he's able to do so. I seriously do not know how long I can ignore my impulse to flee. I can do so without providing any reason in my request for a transfer. It would temporarily halt his paycheck but would otherwise leave him fit for duty.

I have been a very tough girl, all of my life, but not this tough. Were it not for the money, he'd take me, but says I'd never be able to hold him. I am doing a remarkable job, thus far, by taking the bits of his defenses which drop, but where am I going to be in six months, if, eight weeks in, I have cashed in every pressed rose petal at my command? We live together half the day as if we are husband and wife. I cannot not touch him, but then stop myself.afraid, really now, of taking him. We aren't school children, and I necessarily find myself consoled by Woody Allen's expiation of his own indulgences as an embittered old man. Cassandra's Dream and Match Point are excoriating narratives unraveling his own guilt at the scandal, and they fascinate for that reason, even as a hint of criminal incest has chased him since the storm broke. I am in nothing like that, but this lion heart, in his determination to filter out my bile, may find his zealotry penetrating my last broken heart, sizable arrowheads too well aimed.

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.

Basketball & Rules on a Sim Card Transfer

There's always some reason to feel not good enough, and it's hard at the end of the day. --Sara McLachlan

Let me open this post by saying that Samson and David are rather favored exemplars of what it takes to be steadfastly devout until the frailty of human need breaks the most heroic aspects of our nature, even in being a warrior for the certitude of exceptionalism. In our otherwise silent alliance in the many months the editor of Modern Catholic has remained my follower, Rebecca Angell may grasp this and admonish me with the inquiry, "You understand the radicalism Christ brought to the Hebrews, don't you?" Yes, but it's easier when Yahweh let's you slaughter a thousand Philistine's with the jawbone of a jackass. I have a novella trapped in WordPerfect 7 which I've almost sold tied around this very principle of martyrdom's Old Testament militancy, and I am more inclined to believe in Samson as a Nazarene than I am in Jesus as the feminine handmaiden to the Father. Blaspheme? Not quite, merely a stipulation that I need Samson as a Herculean figure, David as the King of Kings, before I can swallow the petulance of the Incarnate with his demands toward selflessness, and maybe, in my attempt to find a new trustworthy intimacy with women in my peer range, I need this new found submergence, new to me, sucked into a cousin's pain worse than mine. It interests me that a woman can be married, have at least one granddaughter, more dogs than I have cats, and be in such profound pain because her husband, my cousin by blood, is an impotent prick. "I can only imagine the things you write about me." Billy said this to me years ago, not realizing I find him rather colorless, emasculated as he is by his dying mother, and I now serve as a buoy to his wife while mutant fissures pulsate my body in ways never anticipated before the 15th of last month. Pam values her privacy, and I've already written enough, in both alarm and irritation, to disservice what her trust expects, as she too curls like a vine reaching out to my nursing aide.

On the basis of what this quixotic fellow has tossed at me, I'm assuming, brusquely, if I want him, then I can take him: he refuses to fully kiss me because then he'll have to take me, so he claims, while I look at my oblong face, incredulous-- but this isn't my point. I'm engaged in a serious battle with myself about winning him, as he claims I have, merely asking me to wait, or fearful my attachment will become irrevocable-- (I am already there, thank you)-- but is this what I really want, an untutored lion, for who's sake I'm studying the rules of the court? I had him literally on top of me Tuesday. It wouldn't have taken much, and yet, I released him, every day, another flavor, another stroke of his fingers, nearly intolerable, unable to engage in the usual stimulus to ease these frustrations, I'd rather he not use foreplay merely to ease my suffering, find him too sweet to remain infuriated, while the game goes on despite my bobby pins, ready to anesthetize the fluttering wings of the moths. I want to know that it's real, not Memorex, hoping I won't have to kill him with a strangulation of silk before he sorts it out himself.

Last Day In April

Take me on. --a ha

I am not certain that I’d incur any significant losses by telling you I am researching bipolar disorder and pregnancy without yet having any potential query clear in my mind. Sourcing obstetricians and patients is, on the basis of contingency, a high wire act, thinking of my mother in her moribund jean jumpers, besieged fertility goddess of her time, blood running down her thick set thighs after she tripped outside a store. She straightened herself out without the use of a metronome during her pregnancy with Benjamin, her last child, only half-brother, rarely to dwell on her memory, slovenly sexual energy shared by eldest daughter with spears of pain in my shins, burdened more by sexual regret than anything, the game still on in his mind, and as my mewing 9:15 ache indicates, still in my mind too. The problem is I don’t have a clear read on what he wants. Why tell me he had an anal sex daydream with me if he wants me to behave? A good deal of the dowager’s arrogance was flattered by this admission, but the man’s passive aggressive baiting then swiping me down perplexes me. If it is mere lechery he could have had me by now, as my reactionary battalion of racial fear collapsed mid month. If these are his weapons, I’ve deployed my own somewhat subtle corral. It isn’t exactly nothing when daddy’s nonna puts poppa on the telephone to greet an African American male over 50 keeping her buttocks in fairly good hygiene, nor is it exactly nothing when this father’s sister decides to take him out to dinner. Marie’s largesse astonishes even me, but my family must appreciate the beatitude of my silence, a shotgun wedding with comedic exaggeration between us, he and I—in his mind, he fears my family will force a commitment on him if our already hairline intimacy billows away the scant coverage shielding the breasts of which he gets a good glimpse on a daily basis. No man or woman can ride this current forever, if it’s there. I’m old enough to remember M-TV’s initial launch on cable, the primitive social media of its day, making micro track musical narratives, all of which lumbered under Ken Wahl’s hairstyle. Though a-ha is an industry promoted boy band, You Tube was smart enough to take me back into time to the range of motion screaming in my soul on the refrain of its confidence. If he and I have such a hold on each other’s need, take on me, take me on, our smart phones are all but a cock ring and dildo apart, in theory, rebuilding the bridge I keep trying burn. There is nothing in my  damaged womanhood he doesn’t know. How did I stay on my knees in this fantasy? Let me correct myself: I have a secret or two left.

Ischemic Stroke Pulses in Joy Reid’s Fan Club

"She apologized because she got caught." --James Woods

Basically, I have three choices. Call the case manager, a woman thirty odd years our junior, request he be exchanged for absolutely no good reason, as I came at this woman hard, and as a result, my caretaker and I were awarded special recognition. Regardless of what I’d say to his superiors, questions would be raised that would have consequences after singing his praises. I’d in essence relieve significant sexual tension between us to return to potluck picks even though his tactics worked. My breasts have flushed out, I feel like I’m ovulating again, his hands break out in a sweat at the touch of my skin, and although it was not the very brief French kiss I planted on him not many posts ago, he did kiss me on the lips Saturday. For someone fighting me so hard verbally still on one end, he is still compliant on the other, and I have to come to terms with the fact I’m in love with him: maybe it is entangled in the desperation of entrapment, gratitude. I’ve run the gamut and realize the disparity between us just as he does, nearly begging him to leave me even after saying to him please don’t leave my life. “I’m not going anywhere!” he exclaims. And yet, after being rolled and changed and clothed in dilatory routine I’ve been subjected to since October, I sat by the larger window on my left, vaping, and the dowager, in defiant resurrection, said wearily, this fine spring day, you have no idea how happy I’d be to get off this bed myself, how this insulation enveloping me is making me lose my fucking mind. That too, was my rebellious truth. Shall we pick a card? But we were on choices, were we not?

Second choice, as previously mentioned, force his hand. Make him sleep with me or forcibly reject me. Life is short, I’m 56, and to whatever degree I’m culpable, see whether we work as lovers or don’t, and accept how either pathway changes our respective roles. I’m not absolutely certain here, but he’d take me out of hunger if nothing else if I really seduced him into it, or else he would not have allowed my aggressive foreplay.

Third, leave it as it is, let him go, which I thought, on Friday, that I had, only to find myself in tears, once again, four or five hours past. These tears are rather familiar, in the need for adhesion to an able male protector who will give me sympathy, or commiseration, but never that which they do not feel, Jerry or John from my febrile youthful longing, a handful of others. This guy was, is, simply too generous, his heart nearly literally on its sleeve, I can see the very dark irony over killing myself on the sword of nigger pity, with perhaps a little desire mixed in. I have to allow myself some credit in his fear of his own lust. I see what it’s doing to him. Part of me cares not to have him suffer, even as my cousin, new found consigliere, tells me I cannot help what I feel, defender of Joy Reid’s revulsion, my very own. Do I have the right to force him into something not best for either our mutual long term interests? Georgy Girl took a satirical bite out of those hormones saddling James Mason to an otherwise oblivious Lynne Redgrave in the flush of conquest. We’re no longer in that era where women shifted the balance of power, this one saturated in urine twice over.

This, under his zealous guardianship, the shrinking cadaver in her final blows under optimal regulatory compliance.

Rewriting Othello From Peas in a Tin

The French president can point to some benefits of his approach. Trump reserves most of his admiration for autocrats like Vladimir Putin, Xi Jinping and Mohammed bin Salman. Macron is the only democratically elected head of state Trump seems to genuinely admire. --The Guardian

Emmanuel Macron is a rather gorgeous echo of JFK, though my aide couldn't see it when I pointed it out prior to our latest vacillations in familiarity, like Julie Andrews singing first this way and that way. Julie Andrews has a succinct clarity of voice, crisp as an apple orchard And in the same vein that the detractors of Trump slant it, the uncanny ability of the French to straddle the line is something even a borderline fanatic can admire, appreciate. Not everything has to revolve around a polar opposition, even if the podiatrist reminded me of the social set from which I drafted myself away. If things get serious, if they aren't quite already for a hapless spastic, this will be an issue. A quadriplegic may straddle white ranks, from trailer trash to mundane foot specialists, but a plow horse groomed into a thoroughbred? I'm not Rex Harrison, nor Leslie Howard, secret agent man, and only note it because the equestrian in question developed an interesting invisibility while I engaged the doctor, exchanging codas rather than accommodating both. I've read about it in black literature but never quite understood it until Friday, this intuitive displacement by caste by the lowest ranking member of the caste himself. The podiatrist, in his droll activity, didn't create this dynamic, nor did the dowager, but the lines just that suddenly reorganized. White to white co-valency cannot be penetrated by a minority laborer not of the professional class. These divisions I may have wanted to fracture when I was 23, but not now, even as I gain ground through reassurance, that what I presume to be rejection is only hesitation, growing bolder in assertion by virtue of my liberality, as I somehow have to trampoline off the socialist net once again. I applaud Austin's sentiment here

Yeah you can keep that socialized medicine right the hell away from the good old US of A.  https://t.co/ux7jqfJC8f

— Austin Petersen (@AP4Liberty) April 24, 2018

but it is a reactionary revolt against leftist distribution sowed into place by Lyndon Johnson. If I defy it too adamantly, exactly how do I survive? It isn't something I haven't focused on with daily concentration, as all I'm doing is softening into mundane blandishments I've resisted until reaching out to a cousin, who by example tries to teach me we reserve passion for vocalists like Jeff Buckley, so charmingly deceased that he transformed Leonard Cohen into his own cardiovascular system. Under Pentatonix, "Hallelujah" is a defiant triumph. Buckley makes it into a dirge worth bowing your head over. Despite new found ease with You Tube and texting, finally having caught up with the rest of you, overwhelmed by messaging, I do not readily find surcease in exchanging pop culture video like bit coin, even if now my own self censor is kicking in. It isn't that I've been beaten by the middlebrow, only vested interests, the knowledge that my cousin is a private person, our new found intimacy valued. She may not mind you knowing she's lame too, but would mind if I detailed her own tensions with my father's sister, not that you couldn't extrapolate what those entail from earlier posts-- but I will tell you her interests don't really mesh to mine. I love felines but don't fetishise it as she does her dog breeds, and may chuck all of this if certain elements come back together. Starved intimacy is a powerful thing, very, but I could just as easily text my brother about misplaced tortellini, in the run of the mill.

AT&T's vibrator exchange

you're too slow-- my plow horse pseudo-husband

My plow horse of an aide, in actuality no match for the dried bramble of my disillusionment, is simply too genteel a minority for my rancor over desire whetted on biological happenstance. He trotted me through my paces today, and at the end of this billing period, my old USB plug in will be discontinued, and I contracted a Galaxy S8 over 30 months, though when I can return to actually being a journalist? It isn't simply a matter of ignited loins; it is an issue of psychic separation. I've grown too close, too dependent, and if I want to dim my heart then I need to split him off and go do my thing. On the basis of my prior dim-wittedness, however, I will continue using my Apple for my hotspot. I'll know more next week about whether my considerable deficits can shoulder two lines. I am assuming, given his followers, that Russ Still is a minor celebrity and I should play the affable savant gratified that he followed me. If I do not misconstrue the matter, thank you for following me, Russ Still, but the dowager is a woman with many hard blows kneaded into her, the woman kicking her ribcage inside begging for one last passionate twirl, while the outer ligaments of her body grow increasingly reluctant to do anything except burrow through six feet of top soil for the rest in peace as a universal Kantian experience. Or in other words, my heart is broken because I have an almost intimate relationship with an African American paraprofessional who has my ass in a sling, but you country singers aren't afraid of cups of hemlock. How I am even writing this much on three hours of sleep Thursday?

Stratus Babylon

"I got sunshine, on a cloudy day."-- The Temptations

I am overtired this evening, but the mere thought of crawling back into that miserable hospital bed, with its brown lamination, turns my stomach filled with his cooking and food preparation, as I wait there every morning vibrating with his sex in my nose, wanting to make love to him in the morning sunlight, like the blind wife of the chief of police in John Gardner’s Sunlight Dialogues, flashing back to the pleasurable intimacy of her worn out marriage. We’re both angry, he and I, and I’m learning a bit too much about what life would be with a black man of his caliber, and as I’ve already intimated, it isn’t a fine caliber, but rather that of a yoked plow horse, blotting out everything else in my enfeebled brain, my poor weary mind once perfectly happy to be a miserable angry spinster flirting with the language of incitement for my audience. I’m pissed enough at the moment to turn us both in, screwing myself at least five ways to Sunday, causing him a job loss he cannot afford, because I can’t take it, but even if I do this, I’m not getting over his explorations of my body anytime soon. I never said no, and he’s having a difficult time with the geyser steaming out of my fault lines, kissing him finally, although why he accepted it if I am getting carried away signals he is also vulnerable, but I did not swoon. Curiosity. “You used me,” he objected, but didn’t he do the same?

If I could kick him out on his fucking ass I’d be fine, but if I continue to repress, and if he continues to stay, I am already half gone, mostly gone, while he reads me through his planet cycles of astrological forces in a language I don’t comprehend. You’re nasty. Who would want that? Ah. This, dear readers, I understand, my nasty selfish temperament, almost echoing that of Trudy Richardson, building manager nemesis to whom he was introduced. What a success of cultural appropriation, as I am drawn in small mincing efforts to compare the vacant departure of my stepmother to Death at a Funeral, which I believe is burrowed in my archives, a comedy actually filling in the lines of life. This was not the case for my father's third wife. All her son did was pop champagne. "She was a nice person," this nasty boy said, only here once to upgrade an old Sony large monitor computer. At the very least, mine and my father's ambivalent antagonism fleshed out another embittered invalid who suffered an excruciating death; in any case, I'm otherwise shut down, wondering how desperate I am to find satiation. Even if he winds up turning another leaf, I am horridly taut, worn out with it. Sad, I suppose, fallen so far down the ladder that a black man without his girl can't finish what he started, sadder still I'm better off but could care fucking less, me and my matches not in heaven.

Cumulus Babylon

"Now I know, that rose trees never grow in New York City."-- Elton John

And now, of a sudden, I’ve found my way back into Captain Fantastic, the greatest English speaking musical album of all the world, which might not have come into existence if the dowager had been the enforcer of Britain’s anti-homosexual laws. They would have had been enforced. Reginald Dwight might have received an ad hoc rupture of the Vas Deferens from the testicles in the necessary imperial need for order, not that this would have cured where his desires led, nor it is as false a dichotomy as you might believe, in my willingness not to fear locking horns over decency and the progressive expansion of artistic force. American rock was a relatively innocent flirtation riding on Elvis Presley’s corn fed hips before the British invasion occurred. The foment of my youth, however, can no longer rise to the sheer delphinic epiphany of “Curtains,” and lesbians in Lancaster, those whom I used to know, might be in danger of my ire in less than a hyperbolic fashion if their circumference shrinks to within striking distance. Last week, a brief wildfire erupted, but even then I knew, as old a conflict as Mann’s Death In Venice, an ironic, if well studied choice, that one cannot defy biology, unless, as in The Ambassadors, where queer genius is obfuscated into the concealed repression of an illicit, if straight, extramarital affair, or The Tempest, which is Shakespeare’s mastery proclaiming the aged wisdom to be paramount, that mature partnerships can only reinvigorate up to a point.

This is not to say conservative reactionaries do not have needs. We’re not monks, but my New Mobility feature, in 04, exposed and attacked this very thicket within attendant care, in which I am now both, conquered by, then turned conqueror of, a sexual attraction inside of it, depending on how I wish to interpret the matter, resolved to turn off the tap as I was, truly believing he was being kind out of pity. He today assures me this isn’t the case, and the lioness in my gonads has stopped lashing about like a wildcat, and remains merely alert in her den, observant, tender, and yes, mildly happy, but it doesn’t change me, nor the way I might see the possible fruition in a father's eyes. 

If I want to go deeper into Elton’s supremacy, however—for me, a specialized supremacy—meaning he is the best among British talents of my era, I will only go deep enough to say that his gifts wouldn’t exist had his homosexuality been accepted as a mainstream biological imperative, as opposed to tolerated, in the late 60’s, and I in turn wouldn’t have been corrupted by his preeminent subversiveness, joined to Taupin’s scathing lyrical narratives. “Alice,” from Yellow Brick Road, still pierces with hypocritical poignancy when it comes to sexual secrets, but that doesn’t mean Bernie’s progressive sympathies have been victorious, nor that I’m the bad guy. I know we can’t put the genie back in the bottle, but there are limits, even things Shawn and I couldn’t share down the road. We’ve already lived a half century in different worlds. My mention of Loving made no dent in our conversations, and since I'm barren, I would not be able to wed, should it come to that, in my faith, but I have to look into that.

The arc of Vegetable States

"I couldn't help but feel sorry for him."-- Teddy Bear, Zone Blanche

Though I have not been overly persistent on the matter, once a year I text message Thomas Paine of True Pundit about working for him, and have a sustained interest in learning his true identity. Speculation that he is a former federal agent or DOJ official may spring from how he tweets to Eric Holder and the FBI, and makes sense except for the tagline on his account, which contravenes the notion of authority figure, despite the fact award winning journalists necessarily have good investigative skills. Given the unraveling of the Bureau under Trump, and Mueller's rather serious blow in revenge, raiding Cohen's offices, my interest has intensified, and my approach may be blockheaded, given that he is a Patreon content creator. I may simply not understand how to join True Pundit, or other aggregators of their type. Beneath the surface of everything I have been writing about, being steamrolled and hamstrung by welfare, the freeze of my most important content in Office 7 wps files, and eclipsing my independence by submitting myself to a nursing aide from whom I am deriving sexual comfort--trust me when I say this is never where I wanted to be, and I had something of a serious argument with the man this afternoon, which resolved little, other than the knowledge that I'm falling in love with an intellectual inferior for the reason these things always occur within the subculture of broken bodies. It has ensnared me too finally, this regression to a caregiver, though to some degree, it always has, as I am panicked about the restoration of some professional function. The sheer intensity of how aroused I've been within this last week hasn't helped in my progression towards troubleshooting my issues.

This is what has been drawing me back to persistent vegetative states. The Criminal Intent episode Conscience is comparable to the Zone Blanche pilot, in which viewers are tricked into corresponding shots of the forest and the evidence on the boy's body as being supernaturally linked. Then the reality is exposed. A mother cannot accept that her son's condition came about as the result of being falsely accused of rape, and drags him through the soil on a nightly basis in an attempt to reverse his all but successful suicide. Shawn doesn't want me to wind up the same way, and though my family might not share this perspective, his strategism to help me see I'm still a living woman both worked and backfired, and now we're in a gray zone of almost lovers, though I've said some terrible things about my attitude on interracial fondling of this sort. I wanted him to see what I'd made myself. He asked if I truly reduced him to these racial terms, and when I'm in his arms I don't, but those arms are not the real world with its social stratification. Paine believes the raid on Cohen is deep state at its worst, an attempt by the meritocracy to disassemble Trumpian populism, and the skeptic within me has concurred in silence. Shattering lawyer client privilege due to speculative hush money is a big deal, as we of a certain generation wade toward minimal awareness. I published one scoop in my lifetime, and now I have to consider it a privilege that I'm limited to merely writing a post a night, as opposed to pitching. If I truly want a psychic separation between me and my nurse, I can do it without firing him, merely by treating him like a servant, and dimming the dial on the scent of his testosterone, politely asking him to respect my space, fading into a routine which in and of itself has the beat of a respirator in an atmosphere deliberately created to stoke our paranoid fantasies.