Vincent Likes The Bed Making Game

All this scar tissue bubbling over the loss of simple plastic tube technology, but the Aero filled in the gaps from the e-vapes, and I became dependent on both cigarette technologies to keep me away from traditional tobacco. Vuse is nice, and I am switching over to it from blu cigs, but the Aero simply worked for me, and I cannot back slide back into 3 packs a day. My lung decline is too advanced, aside from the children I must soon give up, unless the sliver of my mind left still convinced of my tragic mental acuity can pull a stroke of genius out of my life long location misery. Tony Stiles is the most recognized libertarian following me on twitter. I took a few days to digest this, think about it, schedule a slot to listen to his broadcast, or flag my time to do so, at some point, but let me say this: The one thing we all know is if you break your leg, you can no longer run the Olympic marathon. Liberals out of sympathy create the Paralympics so the gimps can imitate what they once were, and a conservative might say amputation is the better part of valor-- so, there are politics around these broken bodies, and my desire to get out of Riverside Presbyterian is not a denial of the fact that I'm over 50 but a recognition of it: I want the housing authorities to stop criminalizing my limitations and I want to decline without constantly being threatened by Protestants modeling me on their "good works" doctrine (through terrorizing me for 30 years, that will do it), first under Caucasian hypocrites, then under black liberation theology, which has its own pretensions that personal responsibility burrows over African psychopathy. Like Stacy Head, I know it doesn't, but unlike Stacy Head, I am unapologetically racist.  Philadelphia's minority majority encrypted that codex for me, and the city of New Orleans is a disease I am buoyed not to know, just as sibling frictions are complex. I apologized to my sister for going overboard with her in 2007. My life was in jeopardy, seriously, and I lost it, but this isn't to recognize simmering resentments.

Stephanie married badly, and her husband is placid but also white trash, and having four children in rapid succession dampened her aspirations. What they were I can no longer say, since she enrolls in college, drops out, takes a nursing degree but has to end her career for the sake of the husband. In her book, I have unenviable freedom, and we both accuse each other that these are the lives we made. I know I need technology I can no longer afford to stay independent. Christ knows I've grown old with militants like Cassie James frightening people and my former editor Josie Byzek preaching catechism to the choir, but I'm of an age where I make the decisions: look at how many layers of government direct how we live our lives, SSA, HUD, the VA, the IRS, and the favorite of drug dealers, public welfare. This is why I spent my childhood under the knife, so that I could provide a house nigger like Trudy Richardson a job telling senile people how to handle their ovens in a kitchenette. This is it, that's all I am, a problem that justifies her salary while I was doing home economics before she was born, in rehabs, when I was fourteen. Freedom is making the bed on my time, thank you, and saying let me go when it it time instead of medically torturing me back into bed ridden containment. I've considered accessing 4 chan to help me get out, even for a short time. I know it is a risk, but this is how much I want to breathe without regulatory dictation at my back, though it could be too late, could be.

Adaptation Deficit

The Aero is not a perfect cessation crutch, but my physiology is now in serious trouble with Woodleaf's holiday announcement. E cigarettes are unreliable. Plastic tubes are not. I am not going to take the time right now to surf for a replacement, but if you have any recommendations, I utilize the vapor.

Arson and Arsenic

Alas, bigots by definition are not inclined toward self-awareness.--Kathleen Parker, grasping the reigns with quite a strain

This home explosion is the closest thing I can find to what my aunt threw in my face via her son, but that it has a New Hampshire location means my fact finding detection system is off track, as it doesn't make any sense.

I am not sure why I continue to read Ms. Parker. I approached her in email as well, scoured by the same nasal vinegar you receive as an ubiquitous mindset on my part. Again, why? She is representative of the conservative affluent woman who wants everyone to be happy under the meaningless rhetoric of constitutional equal protections, while mildly chiding the country that we've lost the finesse of manner. In the case of Sterling, however, I side with Maher on Stiviano's underhandedness, regardless of the old man's attitude.

Stiviano utilizes babe sex to be a figure in baller culture, and that she stuck it to Sterling isn't any less deplorable due to the fact we're shoveling cubic tons of dirt on the underside of egalitarianism. I am still weighing what I want to dialogue about with Kathleen, who was in Laura Bush's press corp, before I hit the whining pity cripple pressure meter. She will not grant me access if ridicule is a temptation in the wings, but suffice it to say Wapo's gate keepers know who I am, nibbling establishment platform breadcrumbs, to the extent that Graham family prominence carries any weight. In DC it carries, of course, despite the fact her column seems a bit shrill today, its humor forced, which may beg the question of what I'm trying to distill through her constraint.

I have roughly 1800 dollars between me me and agonized defeat against adulthood destitution, so I am struggling to cut back on nicotine vapor intake, eating my usage to mitigate agitation, I use a small pointed soft wood to clean the filter cap over the lithium battery that constitutes the e-cig, a maintenance of necessary dedication. 

Former Flotus

There ought certainly to be some bound beyond which the cult of favorite authors should not be suffered to go.-- William Dean Howells, American aesthete

Grumbling, spending money on juice. Basically a joke, but I have to do what I can. Between blu and the aero my physiology is barely manageable; in 2015 I will probably fracture and return to real cigarettes, barring a minor miracle of discretionary income. I wanted to be important in what I did with my life and to love as well and fully as I could with this Borgia temperament. Jesse got it; he knew me less than 40 minutes but understood. That I want to be on my own; that a lifelong battle in public housing has destroyed the best part of my vibrancy. I suppose it is just as well, these dashed hopes wrangling around once again. I am torn between hating gay lesbian transgenders and realizing how starved, utterly starved, I am for my own set. Jesse represented that.

I am going to give my notice to Presby soon. I'd rather-- but pause on the realization that as a practical matter the state would incarcerate me, rather than leave me incapacitated on the street. But I have reached the end of my tether, and something has to give. I've let the Pennsylvania *safety net* promulgate my quadriplegia into an American sanctioned life long hate crime. Two weeks, this is all I am giving myself before I terrorize sweet caramel Trudy with her meritorious pretense. She modulates her voice to take the accent out of it, but I am not fooled. So, this may be the beginning of a lengthy goodbye. My cousin is amusing, over the top with his assurances. "I'm there for you."

Fucking crock. Marie says jump and he grabs a tape measure. He is lying. Not that I mind. Marie didn't quite pulp her Billy into a sissy-- but he isn't ready to let me move in with him, his spouse. No one is there for me when it comes to leaving this urban nigger shanty.

Nubile Antecedents

When she looked in the glass and saw her hair grey, her cheek sunk, at fifty, she thought, possibly she might have managed things better--her husband; money; his books.-- Virginia Woolf, To The Lighthouse, p.14

Michael Apted engages cinematic allusions as well as the dramaturgical in his direction of Nell, and perhaps even some narrative traditions. According to the lucky theater critic, Handley was aware of this in the production of his play, but the film superimposes a diachronic continuum with the history of Grizzly Adams, the short lived Lucan, or Truffaut's rigorous battle as an auteur. What about on set romances that seem to be requisite to belong to the screen actors guild, or Foster's characterization of Nell's rape phobia as a mythological echo, even older than the taunts of demonic possession in The Exorcist?

What I am driving at is my willingness to equivocate on Jodie Foster's public projection of her sexual ambiguity, despite my betrayed disdain and contempt for my fuck wit neighbor. It involves more than her life long navigation from child actor celebrity to contemporaneous diva. As an artist, Ms. Foster seems wary of binary definitions of otherness. Certainly not present in all her roles, it is still an important subtext in many of them, a willingness to evade certain aspects of identity that I can respect.

I could push this post a little further, but we shall return to it, my health permitting. Lithium batteries are an untrustworthy crutch, and my frustration with their flimsy durability is of the sort that makes the ambulatory frightened of me. Tomorrow is an event day. Rare thing.

The Joyce Glove

It's over, and not to engage in hyperbole out of bounds, but I'd dance in the Salvation Army rumble if I could in sheer relief. I like the Rosenbach, I think, but a live reading group with a curriculum structure was a mistake for me, given my pulmonary distress. The cheerful blonde from the Wednesday group said, strangely, that I was *brilliant* when I complained I could barely remember how to construct a thesis statement. Her name is Amy. Nice woman.

I am ill, dying from my own past tobacco usage, and now the glycerin vapor, perhaps. Chronic bronchitis is not an unbearable metaphysical condition so much as minute suffocation. I cannot hug Jerry goodbye; this saddens me. 

I have traversed that Market Street corner so often, it feels like an augur's ill tempered omen, an encroachment of third world malaise, the sleaze of urban corruption. I do not wish to wind up semi conscious on a respirator. 

After rest we shall return.

Simulations

Every company stands behind their products. It is a convenient blanket for the truth of the matter, which is that the electronic lithium battery is unstable. I ripped myself off and ordered two fresh batteries, as I tossed the receipt from Walgreens and forget the date of purchase, though I told you my trip on Locust street was unpleasant without going into detail about inner city minority insolence making it unpleasant. There are variations on every version of my posts of course. Erik was my source for my first paid byline, and both s/he and Linda, ruthless corruptors, would mope, along with another vacant spastic I'll call the Gladhandler, that they wanted to support me, and did, except Linda views giving her confidence as confessing to collusion, breach of ethics, and expects that the good lieutenant, being loyal, to understand, even while the lieutenant's life collapses, but Erik and the Gladhandler and my ex currently lead lives I consider to be nothing more than autonomic living deaths.

I'd be much better off if I could get away from it, and age as I must in a fresh clime without so much dead baggage, water logged albatrosses. I should not have to move heaven and earth to achieve this in my own looming weakness, bowels as recalcitrant in the seasonal humidity as is the norm for my body. I have tried everything short of getting physical to make Erik understand I hate what s/he is and stands for, if this level of dependency has to be so ironclad as to destroy the desire of ambition. I am now truly discomfited through sinus and my colon, and wonder what it is too late for. Happiness and the esteem of my own economic security?

Curse of Sinn Fein

Perhaps my coconut milk curdled, but suffice to say I cannot attend to group this afternoon. Used to a troubled bowel as I am, the virulence of this attack frightened me to the point that if I want to return to Italy to die, I'd better start focusing on getting that done. I'd dive into racism in the 21st century, but should wait to see if I have gone viral in the tradition of an influenza.

It is official: I am sick beyond the normal parameters of COPD, and over-utilizing blu and its glycerin atomizers may have contributed. Again, I cannot work, again.

But since I cannot find the post I am looking for, and what else is new, let me make some slight observation about attuning our addictive propensities to alternate and digital technologies: these and these each have strengths and weaknesses. Aero is simple and portable and can be taken anywhere, but does not last long and generates pressure on the need to recycle. The electronic version is stronger and closer to the stabilization of tobacco, but binds the user to the grid with greater necessity, and I am not entirely sure this is much better than the rise of the tobacco industry, though its torturous fall is a utilitarian virtue for public health. As Aaron Eckart in his didactic mode illustrates, however, many of our modern conveniences have pitfalls.

And I am unsure what the left thinks it will achieve in the attempt to regulate vice and negative behaviors out of existence.

Exeunt With The Bear

I'm like a connoisseur of champagne cognac, the perfume nearly beats the taste. Pete Townsend, Empty Glass

I spent a very unproductive day chasing after these Tuesday, trapezing on Locust, which I rarely do, kicking myself over my imposing introduction to @PhillyTechGuy. Could have cut my crisis time in half. Possibly saved a few dollars. Getting laid momentarily crossed my mind; their pitch is accurate, however, and the store seems pleasant. Do I ever drop my pretense?

I was not as invested in Dorner's issues as my posts on the event he posed may seem to indicate, not in terms of taking him off the beat and assessing his impaired judgment, but had he escaped it would have been thrilling. The DC sniper scared the living shit out of the east coast. I was there, and like a substantial minority in the media, I thought the US faced the possibility of an insurrection. Muhammad's death was nearly sanctifying in light of that possibility. Dorner's? Idiotic. It seems apropos then that I came in a little late to The Following. Better production values than the CW's tacky rival. Bacon when he is on, solidly grounded. Emma is an elfin echo of Mia Farrow. Muhammad could have had an insurrection; he was methodical enough, cold enough, and this is what made the true aspect of humanity's universal tendency to close ranks behind authoritarianism rear its head against Dorner. He was one of the very few who could boast leverage; he succeeded in illustrating that but had no real contingency thought out so that the abused, the wronged, the angry, could have united behind him. I certainly would have, all things being equal, had he truly applied his intelligence as opposed to raving on FB. Many courageous historians point out, accurately, that the US is democratic in its rhetoric, and tyrannical in practice, re: the moment I committed to paper that I would be seeking legal action against my landlord, they started leaving me alone. After 28 years of dictation on how they want me to live, Presby and their regulators have gone mute, one, because they are fully aware that in their book, spastic has no civil liberties, and two, they are up to no good, so I really need a public housing attorney. Injuries may magnify, but sometimes they have legitimate cause, and my pain is in part a reaction against black bigotry, with their white managers pulling the strings. Presby suits are far more fearsome than Catholic molesters. Let Karen chaw a pithy tweet out of that contention.