Conquest of Galactic San Francisco

Vervoort, 40, suffered from incurable, degenerative spinal pain. She said in an interview in Rio de Janeiro three years ago that she only got about 10 minutes of sleep some nights and described the pain that caused others to pass out from just watching her. She said sports kept her alive.-- as disseminated from the Belgian press in its clinical mercies

I have always been a Johnny come lately to viral fads. I was diffident about blogging when it became a form of media counter culture, had the misfortune to select LiveJournal as a starting point in 2009, and my scar tissue was too raw and unpolished despite my publishing experience. I was diffident about Twitter, and only ran afoul of it as a platform after I adapted to it and its staff in turn adopted Facebook censorship tools, and I think we're all cognizant of the fact that less screen time is beneficial, but this wisdom is difficult to apply when we become prisoners to socialist models of impoverished tenancy housing, and my recent lacuna towards posting anything at all is due to pain and apathy of defeat in an essentially nigger city whose values will eventually destroy the success of European colonial expansion. A mild mannered technocrat like Ev Williams, and indeed, few others, even libertarians, can understand how such hatred within me evolved, as we are taught to condemn what people do, not who they are, and costly solutions like extermination aren't feasible, except as it pertains to the reality that humans kill each other, most often because familiarity breeds contempt, or men have a visceral fear of femininity, less often out of ethnic hatred bred by politics, and I've been desensitized enough to be aware of my own impulse triggers, however ineffectual, but this isn't why I have an intuitive dislike for Medium.
For a significant time, I did not even assemble the platform as the original collective platform on which other models like Niume or Virily were based. Nevertheless, I've paid into Medium membership and the partnership program, primarily because I could die from sitting on my buttock in a disastrously assembled Quantum powerchair. Pennsylvania's Medicaid and federal Medicare is killing me faster than my age, allowing me to understand Vervoort's excruciating embrace of euthanasia better than most of you, and the right to suicide will eventually overcome ecumenical and secular opposition, yet I balk, despite the apathy and the peril and the poverty I am fighting. I balk over every justified suicide tourist, and like the rest of you, even grow angry when it can be viewed as an extravagant contagion, the suicides of despair which cannot even visualize urban honey traps like mine, me with no one, no more positive bonds with former supervisors, no more dead lovers, cheating husbands, just tissue paper underwear and a mentally hobbled black man tending to me whom I would do anything to cut loose. I pity him more than not, as I have excuses which he doesn't, and I am, after all, this close to sixty years of age, and may not make it. This Blogger account will remain open as long as I am able to type it, but I have to slow down with it as I need money desperately if I can hope to circumvent the destruction of civilization through social welfare. Some content I've done here will go to my Medium account, some won't, and I am always, in some form, working toward a scholarly end. And if I can hold out maybe I can repair my horrendously bad environment.

International Criminality

There are no easy choices when it comes to mortality; in one of my many Harrisburg conferences, under the old Pennsylvania Citizens Council, where I first met Josie, who even then was odd, owlish, non descript, a plain Jane who needs to wave Jesus I love pussy on her flagpole, (ah spastic, trolling, now now) there was a deaf dumb and blind minority, pretty woman, considering, who could not hear herself scream when a power chair ran over her foot in a beige pump, Anne Bancroft's majesty entirely absent. What choice does a woman like that have? This is what I asked myself at the time, even as the story of the Belgian twins saddens me. As much as we might need to be wary of Europe's move toward euthanasia, to the extent that I am still viable as a disabled American, one who does not want to die, but is suffering due to extraordinary marginalization, I cannot fault the decision these men made. Would you like me to display compassion toward Josie? Unlikely as it may be, but not impossible, that she and I will ever set eyes on each other again, I know her MS has told on her body, and that she is no longer passable as able. I also know, as you do, that I am a demanding figure, but let me tell you why I am so pissed off with her. She had the ability to recognize how lonely I was, had the ability to ascertain how Cecil's intelligence and perception captivated me, and then turned right around and destroyed any hope I had of building a relationship with him. Progressives who want to tell me this does not make all homosexuals vicious and untrustworthy may be factually correct, but with this kind of dirty laundry, no one needs what you feel you deserve in terms of your sexual activity, and your demands for marriage. What did I do to Josie to deserve this? Let's see. I talked to her in email, perhaps too facetious at times. I gave her daughter a Sherman Alexie collection for which I paid 24 dollars. That is what I did, to New Mobility's managing editor. So what do I want? I want activists to examine their consciences. I am still alone, in exactly the same location where this woman dragged her rancid body to sit near me on a fountain after I charged her with my power chair to grin wolfishly at her hand waving alarm. At the time I thought I meant it as a joke, and much as I have my choice of enemies between this activist mafia and the case management modalities with which they dance, Richard Conte is increasingly hemmed in by the syndicate men whom Kubik controls in Rico. As Eddie heads toward his little brother, Karlson has wardrobe dress everyone up as cowboys. Charming.

Johnny got out too, like the middle child, but apparently opted for a real frontier purity, overshadowed by Lamotta, and Eddie, racked by guilt, decides to fray his cufflinks and turn states evidence, and Alice gets the reward of a recommendation by the DA for the orphanage. I do not think Karlson meant for his viewers to be entirely at ease with this quick plaster happy ending. There seems to be an underlying uncertainty about the price of collusion, but I'll sharpen up my knives as I find the terminology, and the framework I seek.