The DeVito Douglas partnership is for the most part so orchestrated that it conventionalizes itself, but both DeVito and the ancient crones which comprise the make up of the Southern European Aunts Network know what they're talking about when the masquerade of gas feels like a nose dive in a healthy systolic rate. A moment's peace, deflation, and then all the sudden savage invective decibels against minority building managers gently recoils into its daily knot in the stomach.
What is it exactly that spastic wants in terms of her housing and isn't getting? Every large storied building has tenant issues, private or under housing authority contract. Spastic wants a ground level writing studio where she can be left alone as much as humanely possible, ten thousand leagues away from Presbyterian hypocrisy, which doesn't mean Catholic Social Services is off the hook. Blunt and charming nuns ask me if I have my nursing home facility lined up, which is why I am always screaming with Michael C. Hall's hysteria, even if I'm not the gay mortician, in the pit of my stomach.
Perhaps faux fighting President Clinton is a serenade toward an epitaph. His wife is twenty years plus my senior on blood thinning medication with a deer in the headlights astonished look at the country's anger. Would she really be a competent commander in chief? Mozzarella salad in wait, in the genius of Italian gastronomic comfort.
To my Muscovites: I miss being able to make fun of Russian cultural inadequacy. Do come back soon.
Showing posts with label bill clinton. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bill clinton. Show all posts
Monday, February 15, 2016
Friday, February 12, 2016
Dense in interesting ways
"Hate can be exciting. Haven't you noticed?--George Macready
When I started posting in this sorry experiment of a personal voice, I picked LiveJournal's platform on which to do it before switching to Blogger, an entity which doesn't like me, as you know, because I've come very close to using language illegally. In the abstract that sounds silly, doesn't it? But -- ah, don't let me start about seeking out military snipers. It makes the depth of my pain inconsequential, and Philadelphia's ... (marginally white) underclass treats it that way. A somewhat blind smoker named Richard says he'd buy me an Uzzi, and let us simply stipulate for the record that we're all grateful spastic has no capacity to handle firearms, as Richard the smoker jokes with me. There is Finicum, and the tape of his death, San Bernardino, and Gubler's Dr. Spencer in analytic cadence: "Women rarely engage in violence unless they're angry for sustained lengths of time." What we're willing to do, what we're able to get away with, are perhaps two different things, and it's killing me. If I could walk, and you know this, Trudy Richardson and Debra Horne would know their place; I'd out rank them and they would never have the power to humiliate me the way they've both done for years. If I could walk I wouldn't be here, regardless of the economic circumstances, and in 2009 I just surfed, afraid I'd get in trouble, which I managed to do anyway, and said, "hmm, let me try this," and where and how do I wind up? In a service provider for Russia's bicameral mindset! An appropriate platform effort for a foul, sometimes rabid get help you need medication savant.
Yes. The only rational check I have holding me in when it comes to Presby's pecuniary competence is the fact that the sheer number of stupid people doing the job Trudy and Debra and Mike and Niles and supervisory agents therein do out number the rest of us and I'd have to be tried for a war crime if I got rid of them. Look at the website people. Look. I inducted myself into this when I was 23 years old. Twenty fucking three. I was in graduate school, and living in this type of system where niggers in the most horrific conditions dropped dead like flies and traumatized me repeatedly, almost killed me, and then a google-eyed bitch comes in as the new brownie for a transsexual failed internist's insistence on renovations, I nearly died again, and that after the lover this thing fucks got moved around on a chess board with me so I could default on my debt, and google-eyed brownie girl attacks me because she is afraid of menacing quadriplegic, and you all want civility. It isn't nice to tell the 42 president who officiated the funeral of King's widow to shut the fuck up, and it is rather insidious to envision the Secret Service killing me over impulse control, written in highly volatile language and deleted.
Do I obsess the presidency? No, and pose no threat to them even if I had a coronary in giving them a frank exchange, but god as my witness, Philadelphia is going to change its paradigm before I am dead, and I will not allow people like Debra Horne to be so cruel and vapid towards people like me in the future, and disability centers that engage in contiguous illegality will be dissolved and punished, and Philadelphia City Council, and the state legislature are going to either heed or imprison me, and the attorney general of the United States had better have an ear to the ground.
Spastic believes she solved her befuddlement over accessing WIFI, which I really need to do. Stupid cripple, eh?
When I started posting in this sorry experiment of a personal voice, I picked LiveJournal's platform on which to do it before switching to Blogger, an entity which doesn't like me, as you know, because I've come very close to using language illegally. In the abstract that sounds silly, doesn't it? But -- ah, don't let me start about seeking out military snipers. It makes the depth of my pain inconsequential, and Philadelphia's ... (marginally white) underclass treats it that way. A somewhat blind smoker named Richard says he'd buy me an Uzzi, and let us simply stipulate for the record that we're all grateful spastic has no capacity to handle firearms, as Richard the smoker jokes with me. There is Finicum, and the tape of his death, San Bernardino, and Gubler's Dr. Spencer in analytic cadence: "Women rarely engage in violence unless they're angry for sustained lengths of time." What we're willing to do, what we're able to get away with, are perhaps two different things, and it's killing me. If I could walk, and you know this, Trudy Richardson and Debra Horne would know their place; I'd out rank them and they would never have the power to humiliate me the way they've both done for years. If I could walk I wouldn't be here, regardless of the economic circumstances, and in 2009 I just surfed, afraid I'd get in trouble, which I managed to do anyway, and said, "hmm, let me try this," and where and how do I wind up? In a service provider for Russia's bicameral mindset! An appropriate platform effort for a foul, sometimes rabid get help you need medication savant.
Yes. The only rational check I have holding me in when it comes to Presby's pecuniary competence is the fact that the sheer number of stupid people doing the job Trudy and Debra and Mike and Niles and supervisory agents therein do out number the rest of us and I'd have to be tried for a war crime if I got rid of them. Look at the website people. Look. I inducted myself into this when I was 23 years old. Twenty fucking three. I was in graduate school, and living in this type of system where niggers in the most horrific conditions dropped dead like flies and traumatized me repeatedly, almost killed me, and then a google-eyed bitch comes in as the new brownie for a transsexual failed internist's insistence on renovations, I nearly died again, and that after the lover this thing fucks got moved around on a chess board with me so I could default on my debt, and google-eyed brownie girl attacks me because she is afraid of menacing quadriplegic, and you all want civility. It isn't nice to tell the 42 president who officiated the funeral of King's widow to shut the fuck up, and it is rather insidious to envision the Secret Service killing me over impulse control, written in highly volatile language and deleted.
Do I obsess the presidency? No, and pose no threat to them even if I had a coronary in giving them a frank exchange, but god as my witness, Philadelphia is going to change its paradigm before I am dead, and I will not allow people like Debra Horne to be so cruel and vapid towards people like me in the future, and disability centers that engage in contiguous illegality will be dissolved and punished, and Philadelphia City Council, and the state legislature are going to either heed or imprison me, and the attorney general of the United States had better have an ear to the ground.
Spastic believes she solved her befuddlement over accessing WIFI, which I really need to do. Stupid cripple, eh?
Thursday, February 11, 2016
Coronation?
Brief note to Bill: Shut the fuck up and let your wife fight her own battles with the Senator from Vermont. You do not have the privilege of a third leg to stand on with your historical philandering from the governorship of Arkansas to the presidency, not when it comes to throwing charges of "sexism" around. Your daughter, too, Mr. President, had to live with the after effects of the public embarrassment you caused the country: your 'friendship" with Flowers, the Paula Jones case. I studied the judge's ruling there as it pertained to the toxic environment I sustained locally at Philadelphia's independent living center, and realized how despairingly high the bar has to be to receive compensation for toxic humiliation inflicted on a female psyche. You displayed an erection to Ms. Jones to be serviced.
Not something easily forgotten but not legally actionable. You want to know what was happening to me while you were dealing with Bush'es transition team? The day after my former co-worker Debra Russell gave the housing counselor position to the Secretary of the Board's lover, in direct violation of the Commonwealth's guidelines, Louis, my former neighbor from Folsom, overheard my former supervisor lash out at me over the phone: I'm sorry sweetheart! She accused me of wanting to sleep with her because she emailed me graphic responses about her orgasms and I had a breakdown over it. Anyway, Louis picked up the ball, as if we were still doing obscene phone calls from school. Everyone who knew me started calling me sweetheart, sniggering, and I blamed myself and tried to cut my throat, but I didn't. And this is the same center my building manager tried to force me to go back to when she was hired in 2007, Mr. President, despite the fact that the same corporation which employs her was negligent in my aggravated assault in 1993.
I believed in you then, did the things people are supposed to do to recover, tried to be a principled advocate, and served on your SSA committee, though I didn't have time to schedule a White House tour. You do not know the first thing about sexism Bill. You're a callow hillbilly who believes your privileges entitle you to super status, while my family begs me to stay where I am with Riverside Presby because it is "safe". It is killing me to do so. My heart is going into congestive failure, and I have such animosity toward your legacy I'm almost willing to fight for Bernie to give the GOP nominee a better chance. This is why I queried Politico about doing an article on your problematic tenure as First Husband: You'd really return to running the country through the back door, while bookies make odds if you're healthy enough for another two or three ejaculations in the wrong direction. I'm not going to make it through your third term while I argue with Philadelphia's Human Relations Commission on extraordinary circumstances and statue limits: I remember your elated hand slapping after the Jones verdict. I remember Lorena Bobbitt, and my line of vision is waist level. Convenient, wouldn't you say?
Not something easily forgotten but not legally actionable. You want to know what was happening to me while you were dealing with Bush'es transition team? The day after my former co-worker Debra Russell gave the housing counselor position to the Secretary of the Board's lover, in direct violation of the Commonwealth's guidelines, Louis, my former neighbor from Folsom, overheard my former supervisor lash out at me over the phone: I'm sorry sweetheart! She accused me of wanting to sleep with her because she emailed me graphic responses about her orgasms and I had a breakdown over it. Anyway, Louis picked up the ball, as if we were still doing obscene phone calls from school. Everyone who knew me started calling me sweetheart, sniggering, and I blamed myself and tried to cut my throat, but I didn't. And this is the same center my building manager tried to force me to go back to when she was hired in 2007, Mr. President, despite the fact that the same corporation which employs her was negligent in my aggravated assault in 1993.
I believed in you then, did the things people are supposed to do to recover, tried to be a principled advocate, and served on your SSA committee, though I didn't have time to schedule a White House tour. You do not know the first thing about sexism Bill. You're a callow hillbilly who believes your privileges entitle you to super status, while my family begs me to stay where I am with Riverside Presby because it is "safe". It is killing me to do so. My heart is going into congestive failure, and I have such animosity toward your legacy I'm almost willing to fight for Bernie to give the GOP nominee a better chance. This is why I queried Politico about doing an article on your problematic tenure as First Husband: You'd really return to running the country through the back door, while bookies make odds if you're healthy enough for another two or three ejaculations in the wrong direction. I'm not going to make it through your third term while I argue with Philadelphia's Human Relations Commission on extraordinary circumstances and statue limits: I remember your elated hand slapping after the Jones verdict. I remember Lorena Bobbitt, and my line of vision is waist level. Convenient, wouldn't you say?
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