Septic Enzymes

What dire offence from am'rous causes springs-- Alexander Pope

What I’ve spent most of the last 72 hours doing is a perverse form of digital housekeeping, accusing someone named Godwin Bowen of stalking me through multiple user accounts, although I didn’t quite phrase the indictment this way in our brief direct message conflict. For all that I know of online predators, this could go as far back as Mawson Dave and his Syrian relief efforts, these persistent private greetings trying to alleviate my duress in a majority minority city, or maybe people are making fun of me in the cesspool of social media sewage. I am not looking for more cyber sex adventures. What I need is a better quality of intervention than what welfare can offer me, as opposed to the risk of an online sociopath who washed out of the armed forces. In this context, it is remarkable I remember Mawson Dave’s user name at all. In between Mawson and Godwin, I got hit by an alleged Australian widow in Oregon and a French homosexual named Sebastien in Mouelle. Sebastien in Mouelle is 42, looking for a committed relationship with another male. My limited French, mainly utilized to parse Marine Le Pen’s rhetorical flame throwers at normative Parisian liberalism, was appalled. There must be a ground zero in there somewhere, and yet it is Facebook which took the brunt of my pathology, not Twitter. Citing Paul Joseph Watson was merely a pretext for an undulating anger. Visits to the mall of which I no longer have the luxury, second cousins I do not join for zoological strolls, or Tassoni’s video of monk seals in Hawaii. What is all this but an aesthetic list of deprivation for me? I never built those planks of my own immediate family. All that lingers there is an uncouth cop from the Bronx, and he’s dead, so I had enough. Facebook, in the estrangement with my half-brother, is scheduled for deletion, while we leave it to Bloomsberg News to offer minute items, Fatbergs are now clogging pipelines, and as happens, occasionally, I had a massive discharge, and refusing, after midnight, to sit in it, I cut the panty off and got it in the trash. The care worker will not see victory. I’m this close to canceling Medicaid and rolling off, assuming I even have stamina enough to leave the city’s jurisdiction, my death will begin with a staph infection.

John as he is today, my bleeding La Traviata. He prefers that Rocky and Adrianna be aired for Thanksgiving. He talked to my aide on Facebook most of the time. It wasn't a double indemnity I happened to enjoy.

Emendation Vitae

Scottish newspaper literally saying I gave “guidance” to the shooter. This is completely inaccurate and almost certainly libellous. Please retract immediately. @Daily_Record pic.twitter.com/o5myhwDu9A

— Paul Joseph Watson (@PrisonPlanet) March 17, 2019

The above, and then:

Being involved in a legitimate discussion about the impact of mass migration doesn’t make me a radicalizer of terrorists, just as a Muslim criticising Middle Eastern interventionist wars doesn’t make him a radicalizer of terrorists.

— Paul Joseph Watson (@PrisonPlanet) March 18, 2019

I have no issues with Watson and a quizzling figurine like Candace Owens being who they are. Successful provocateurs are breakaways from the conventional human group dynamic. Candace Owens is a fool with occasional penetrations toward something intelligible. The shooter, now forever nefarious, was able to divine this, and the unfortunate Ms Owens seemed rather panicky in recent tweets, as if desirous of scattering in our cruel March winds. Watson takes a different tack, but I will affirm what his critics believe. He is culpable, perhaps not of offering the shooter *guidance*, but certainly for setting the groundwork, creating a febrile atmosphere for a new breed of martyr. That he cannot own up to it lessens his integrity.

But I do own up to it. My efforts at becoming a shock and awe blogger were gradual. I didn't start out saying to myself "gee, I am going to crucify disability activists, homosexual culture, secular liberalism and then convert to rather ineffectual anarchy with fantastical notions of destroying public housing." It took many steps, but unlike Watson, or Candace, I can't win. Beyond a certain core sympathy block, I cannot build my way into social media methods toward earned income. Does Google suppress me? Perhaps indirectly, as the search giant won't help me repair monetization. Does Twitter? Maga persons make claims in this direction, but me, I don't know. I am spammed, sometimes besieged, by purchase follower accounts with astronomical prices, but I do not have the hacker's expertise to cull dark web paranoia to my advantage, as I suspect Watson does, in our incendiary populist times. 

Cuba Gooding Jr’s Barrel Run Through a District Thoroughfare

"You took a bullet for the man. No one could ask for more than that."-- James Woods, the initial downgrade phase

All this time, with the disposable underwear chaffing sores on the underside of my thigh, it turns out, recognition clicking like a tumbler, that I would have been able to recognize Amber Tamblyn if I had connected her accusation of James Woods to her starring role in Joan of Arcadia. The show runs at one am on Start TV, unbeknownst to the dowager until recently, this latest syndicate, seemingly distinguishing itself with stock serials less edgy than Shades of Blue, and that series was too edgy for its network audience. But Arcadia is quirky and corny, rounds its characters out with affection, condescending neither to them nor viewers of the show in its playful syncretism. Never one to admire Mary Steenburgen’s range, here she was correctly cast as a homemaker reaching outward. Seems to be what she’s good at. I lost touch with the show after the network brought in Lucifer for poor Joan to counterbalance, and reentered it at the point where Jason Ritter’s Kevin  discovers a conservative bent in his writing skills is a useful outlet for his anger over his paraplegia. The writers, however, rarely, if ever, never allow conservatism its due, and allow Mantegna to dress down his son’s ego for upending a leniency deal for a thief trying to support his child.

Yes, Amber’s down to earth sensibilities made me reconsider her accusation against James Woods. I’ve reflected on what this “pass” which he claims is a lie says about his taste as a sixty year old, and have decided not to side with either actor, simply because asking a minor out on its face isn’t illegal. The imprecation in the contention between them is only the possibility of statutory rape, not its inevitable conclusion, and as I’ve written, none of us can know whether or not he intended to take it that far.

End Game, for a political thriller, was only noteworthy because it appears to be a lethal Clinton era critique, in which Woods’ character, a rather ambient Secret Service Director, sacrifices himself for a first lady more alluring and stylized than Hillary. Perhaps the studio thought not providing Warren Commission answers was the film’s selling point, in its disjointed jump cuts, but it does provide us with the James Woods as we have him today, in his war of wills with a hornless ram like Jack Dorsey.

Digitalis

This is all I know, so far: AdSense, which is Shareaholic's derivative model, is a fee for profit advertising service. The account holder pays a fee, and receives a pay out for every 10 dollar accrual. I am far less clear about Ad Words, other than I have agreed to pay Google for the clicks. What the dowager gets out of it, as an improvised individual desperate upon desperate for a needed change, is entirely unknown. I can afford to allow the search giant to profiteer off my posts for one billing, and if I get nothing, then I'll cancel the campaign. but I am telling Google publicly, right now, that I may have softened my vehemence decibel, but my anger will never be entirely diminished. Everyone has a side, spanning the gamut, from Jewish supervisors to building managers, but I have 33 years of a hostile environment with exactly the same landlord under which I am a crime victim, repetitively. For those of you with better mobility, you believe you could live with this without disparagement?
Better than a shelter? Not by all that much, as I've dealt with shelter clients at Project Share, and it seems to make little difference whose rod is on their spine, the housing authority or the shelter managers. In addition to which, and this is my failure, alone, I let spend down methodologies evaporate my savings, savings which, if I do survive past 65, I needed. I literally have nothing, bar one, I frightened Presby's corporate office with the liability I have on them. That's it, that, and my 50,000 dollar education which garnished me a return somewhere in the neighborhood of 80k before taxes, roughly estimated. 

There is no discernible difference to this valiantly active domain, not yet, but the masses love the virtue of patience.

----------
Update: this was a failure of comprehension. No more ad words. The charge will be insubstantial. Notice all the help I am getting attempting to monetize my work, sigh.

Inverted Pulcinella

This juxtaposition of proud, cunning thief from the upper class and loud, crass pervert from the servant class is one that is key to understanding Pulcinella's behaviors.-- traditional characteristics

George Ciccariello Maher and Pamela Taylor show an incurious lack of balance, as pertains to their economic interests. Spastic has conveyed nearly a free speech absolutism, to the point of letting vacuous threats against individual enemies stand, but that is easily enough done for a woman who has had nearly every aspiration defeated. If spastic finds a news organization willing to provide a contract, this account may go into mothballs, but she has also been very cautious in her diction about the sitting President and First Lady. I am still a little too smart to give myself tapeworm from raw muscle torn hot and bloody from the rib, and even if  Taylor can be taken at her word about the context of her usage, she had to realize the reactive connotation between "ape" and Michelle's skin color, and writing a post like that on FB?
Statisticians say 1 in 3 people utilize Zuckerberg's Harvard yearbook monster, and everyone else followed suit, mimicking either Twitter or the other behemoth. For a sitting director to exercise that kind of language in a social media post might tell her bosses something about her lack of acuity and ability to compartmentalize.
I defend her. If I should have the right to allow my corrosive, sometimes explosive pain, sock it to the ambulatory world, then she can say what most Europeans feel about blacks. Not all Europeans-- but Pamela's voice is indeed a refection of aspersion, one which forgets the shield of her responsibility to her employer to reflect before she posts. Development corporations do not want to be in the position of defending pot shots at national figures.
Ciccariello is more mundane in the annuals of academic controversy. My mentor went through a similar steam bath with the dean of my college, but if an assistant professor can be so blithely acerbic, should he be teaching at an engineering school like Drexel? I placed his account in my new folder, adversaries, and the administrators removed it. Why is is so wrong, in this context, to acknowledge we have adversaries in the world? I do not know Ciccariello, and assume the real impetus behind his barb is unhappiness with his course load; his case illustrates that accreditation is not always a just winnowing process. With the appropriate sedative, a little preparation, I could roll to his lectern and eat his students for lunch, but alas, most of you look at me and see a savant, a phantasm suitable for Lord of the Rings emaciation. So I have 3 dollars in the bank, intimidating a bingo-eyed African building manage out of her career, willing to go to jail over black authoritarianism punishing me for my inner city victimization.

The upside of facetious

I sometimes lose track, due to seasonal changes, of the additional torments impaction inflicts, and feel easier now. Wednesday morning I thought my symptoms were indicative of stroke, when they were actually reduced diet binding to phlegm, perhaps reduced mammary tissue resiliency. I've lost weight, but not like a happier exercise infomercial. I do not know why I pay any attention to the Social Security Administration. It auto-mailed me me to review my benefit statement approximately 14 days ago. I ignored the prompt, and I'm wasting my usage on mild ire. With that Medicare deductible removed, my monthly budget would be less strenuous, despite the age and condition of the Jazzy. I have not yet acted, mainly because by eight thirty am night owls feather the nest, but I may act in any case, and live my narrowing quality time as I please, eschewing the single payer option, according to my beliefs.

I'm more libertarian than I realized, but we'll leave that for later. I believe I intend to open and monetize a Niume account Friday evening. I will not write "death to faggots," or discuss my pain at independent living centers-- but for some reason, I need to be just as much an esoteric wonk, and shift from deadly tyrannical quadriplegic to archaeologist, of a sort. I'll just give it a try, we'll see. If I fail or get booted, we've been there before. Not the end of the world, nor does this account necessarily have to cease, though rousing Google's ire and living to tell about it is no small feat. But this is the thing: I've exhausted most of what can be asserted about broken bodies and aesthetics. The rest is nuance. Nothing wrong with that, but after 8 years, and behaving like a mini-Idi, perhaps I can take another tack.

For the record, I hate those whom I've felt betrayed by, and when I told Von Schmetterling's caretaker that I'd take him out, during Indian Summer, I was fairly dispassionate. I know all that such an action would achieve is exactly what the building manager desires, my incarceration, as in not her problem any longer, but unipolar activists need to learn that they hurt others unfairly, and Erik's battle with the government nearly took my life, just as Linda Dezenski's mind games with me online did 17 years ago, which is what makes Turkey Day an uneasy time of year: major depressive episode here, a deceased mother there, an intra building renovation that killed its tenants, but hey, what's not to forgive, yah? Oh, yes, Sean Malone had me clapping, in vigorous is he fucking married fashion (I will not write fucking at Niume, maybe they will let me type coitus or what) and he had me clapping just until his conclusion, which asserts expected courtesies, but let me chew on it.⧬

Grand Bargin

If I feel the need to revert back to form and toss some virulence around here and there in my death spiral, I'll make a gentleman's agreement not to tweet any frothing incivility and then wait to see if Google suspends me with assurances that "no content will be deleted". I've nothing particular in mind other than the knowledge I'm going down in flames. If a cop kills me accidentally, a "disabled lives matter" doesn't seem so satisfyingly chic as the other matters trending. 

Females Nag Too Much

In the time honored vexation of crossing wires on social media, I attempted to speak softly to a mulatto whom I don't like, and he is now following my feed. I do not feel comfortable blocking a half wit who says he served as a Marine, but this is now the burden of conscience I get for making an attempt to tell him not to get too involved in online conversation, and conclude from this we've already drastically altered ourselves for the worse. I know what the man wants. To help me heal, help me soften my stance, but his oozing great guy flatulence holds absolutely no interest, just as my overwrought nerves about censorship go a bridge too far. Google is a company. Facebook is a company, and the litany of digital incorporation is not beholden to the First amendment, just as the right to incite is problematical, even if it is qualified by virtual lifelong punishment. Put it in a book instead of a blog, but even there, texts succeed or fail based on formula, market audience, the like.

I do not quite consider myself on par with the grotesque indulgence of Ducasse, but more importantly, I should not have to care as a creative writer, and Google's engineers and employees, not wanting to be arbiters of the First Amendment, should not have to be, even if they aren't sure about the stance of my anarchy. True pathology may be another matter. Have I hit that tenor on occasion? In my published work, every so often, yes. Editors have taken chances on me, but the instant post, this has done bad things to all of us. Obscene photos traded like gawker baseball cards-- and I don't even do that, though I caught my thigh in the phone frame snapping Vinnie and all the sudden had a graphic image designation, and I should have kept that shot, as Vinnie went off mewing in pain and terror in a plastic containment box at the mercy of a city employee named Elena who hated me for dragging her out here at five in the morning. I have to live with that too, and loved the child.

Publishing to Amazon kindle because I desperately need revenue is neither here nor there, ethically, except for the fact I'm using a retailer as a vanity publisher, which waffles me a little, as rejections matter, and being a disadvantaged minority beholden to an overpriced digital global distributor sets my teeth on edge. No one bothers with DEA, so why would vanity productions alter that in any significant fashion, though one grants the format differs? I have decided to try, dip a toe in, and see, but it is not the category of writer I am, and don't want to jip an audience. They deserve my best.

Inability to Come to Terms

I wasted a lot of time this afternoon discovering what I already knew, that community portals like Yabberz are counterproductive, that regardless of what I do, individuals such as I get sucked into contests, and I abandoned Mike Horton's nursery of festivities three times in the course of my online life, and should no doubt give up blogging, given the emotional erosion that comes with age. Perhaps I am a little too frenetic to push the envelope a little more right now, and should go clean my coffee pot, which I meant to do all day and instead wanted to log on to research Trump's plausibility with his audit of the Federal Reserve, and instead, went to that fucking nuisance of a non-partisan venue. Jesus Fucking Christ. Why, when I know better?

I was flagged by some bitch for going into detail about the black racism I've lived, and she no doubt had a victory orgasm, and that ends my membership in such fractious folly, proving there are things we cannot change about ourselves. Pain only tends to breed more unkindness, and no one likes self-pity, or uncouth veracity. I have insinuated things about Philadelphia Adapt and my former colleagues, of course; I'm not their only victim, nor Presby's, even though I've stated in no uncertain terms what I'd like to do to Riverside, so maybe Blogger is afraid someone will take ideas into their head. I don't know, but in that case, let me be arrested and charged. More than the people, I want independent living centers overhauled. For what they are, they hurt too many. No one cares, and sometimes that is why people act. I'm never going to clear my debt, even if I find a happier environ and some small part time activity, and contrary to what liberals may feel, I want to honor the obligations of my loan, but it is not going to happen, as my marginalization is now the product which funded my own past salaries, and I put my heart and my soul on a sleeve, and Blogger has to inject itself in very careful doublespeak.

Don't get me wrong, Google is mighty and I'm an ant outracing the killing fields, but I want my voice to remain as a testament to the fact that intelligence, matriculation, spare us nothing when the blows keep coming, like Trudy Richardson's repeated humiliations. I would truly rather eviction, even though some of you cannot see that logic.

Acquisition Pressure Points

How did we get here? If you’re a progressive, you start by expressing solidarity with a supposed underdog. [sic]

Google is making changes. Google is upgrading and expects me to understand these things, while my worries flue out of my chest like razor thin party streamers, fully cognizant I'll be gone soon, that Google is transitioning slowly into a value brand, paranoia like a vise on my stressed vascular system, Google wins, and my disenfranchisement is like Connelly's self-serving demise at the hands of demonic demands for nurture in American remakes. I grant that I intermingle personal voice, personal rage, yes, with an agenda many viewers may find inscrutable, uncomfortable, but the fact that I'm near the end of my viability should merit charitable latitude, even if my life long anger at being tortured for the sake of everyone else has merged into Trump's bully pulpit. 

Why not telephone Google and sort it out in flushed retention? I have tried once or twice, and need to make an effort with the time differential, and already know, since all platforms are the same when it comes to incendiary fire, I am not going to be allowed more creative freedom elsewhere to stay public with an adult content banner. The Russians and the Chinese probably already point out that the west practices corporate censorship in just such a fashion, through restrictive guidelines, if that is indeed what the search giant is up to. I'm not certain, but wanted to qualify, I still like ambulatory men, of certain classes and types, and wish I had ambulatory men, of certain classes and types, who could see me as more than a vaginal conquest of exemplary penetration. To the extent that female paraplegics can still be fully desirable, I am not one of them, born like an imp, dying like a hag, but the dogs see me as a lay, and it has never been otherwise, at least not with any man I wanted, including the three blacks I might have tried, ancient history, though two were paraplegics. Maybe that I tweet my links is causing the trouble, but I am not engaging in hardcore pornography, and some of you must realize this, that it is a thematic mission statement, yet what can I do? Alphabet may signify Google has future growth issues, but I'm a poisoned cockroach, legs in a death run upturned in the air.

Belmont Options

As goes Facebook, Blogger just reversed itself on its adult content policy, and I'm snickering in derision, supposing this means I can stoop to my corrosive vulgarity as needed, but that corrosive vulgarity didn't land me any champions willing to ride in and scoop me up: I have been, with a degree of difficulty, explicit about physical denigration to my person, even to the point of destructive stimulating attempts which failed after the aide Miss Eddy (I can't really remember this woman's name, but God must hate me to have put me front and center with such abominating indulgence she engaged in such a furtive fashion) left her suggestive touches lingering and she luckily escaped with her life the next day. I could not reach Unlimited Staffing to prevent her return at the time, and the police owe me a debt for sparing them such a sordid business. I never call the police, which is probably why I've managed to evade Inglis so long, despite Presby's heavy hand, but I do not link to pornographic material. I may embarrass my family, and my cousins may have a bone to pick with me about my imposition on their mother, and I concede my tyranny without argument; I have little praise to offer various individuals but for when admiration overrides contempt-- that said, I'm not entirely gratuitous, and believe even my damaged intellect deserves better. I wish these digital giants would make up their damn minds, however. I'm nothing. Poets & Writers banned me and I never got over it, and so on, but I'd never fight Google. I'm too old now, too weak, and Google is powerful. I am just a crippled ward who never broke free through use of her expertise on the welfare state, and the last thing that ignites me is insurrection, which even reactionaries of like mind disregard because they do not want to take on my maintenance. Case closed.

My options:

1. Stay with Presby and let my years of stigma go. I can't.
2. Make myself homeless and see how long it takes to make the federal contract with pluralism seem like Candyland.
3. Go to Inglis, which is a form of annihilation, pictures of their grounds notwithstanding, I know I cannot endure what I've seen there of rubber tubes and emaciation of impending death.
4. Find a roommate.
5. Euthanasia
6. Make another plan.

What is it exactly that I want?

To stop being intimidated by property owners and return to some form of matriculation while I am able to do so, and get an age appropriate bloke to lean on with more compatibility than I had with Hispanic Frank-- which means no more Hispanics.

The shot of little kimmy I took on the blouse I took exposed a bit of spastic thigh, and a touch of my sash belt. That much skin was inadvertent. I am not a photographer; it's banished. 

Disaffection

"thank you for following me" a direct message 

Mr. Harris may have forgotten that he was following a nasty a bituminous troll, because he sent yours truly a direct message which asserted that he'd "return the favor," when I decided to let his feed on my stream, an indicator that he may have ignored my links. My synaptic connections aren't what they used to be either; I too struggle with fine print, but I try to visit my twitter page and trim the branches.

I may stop linking my DIA posts so often, however, if the moral majority is going to pressure Blogger to silence me. Where that pressure came from might be nice to know, but I am not going to let it stop me, not that I can fight Google, I know that. This software belongs to the company, and the First Amendment applies to the public square-- but Blogger succeeded in making me angrier, inadvertently, perhaps.

I am, on occasion, chastised by the establishment for lack of relevance, which annoys the holy shit out of me when it comes to social media. I wanted to talk about texts, on Linked In, with those who taught them, but down came the muzzle, "lack of relevance," without me breathing a word about my personal situation. I could not fight back, Linked In couldn't tell me anything, and yet I had to be mortified.

This isn't virtual stigma following real life prejudice? We do not have to thank followers in thousands of automated emails. Think about it. I'll leave my account. I like Medium, and think it's better for us than thousands of writer authors tweeting what we won't read. I like BeaconReader too, and for that I need twitter. 

I'm mean, hurtful, and occasionally vile, but I am also challenging and divergent, and you really need to stop and think about the price people like me are asked to pay. I am in exactly the same room I was when I was punted off Poets & Writers. How many of those authors have moved on, been able to change? I am in exactly the same studio where Linda squealed to me like a pig about her orgasms, and she may have left the disability center, but I am sure the bitch has her mortgage paid off. I know she, and Josie Byzek, whom I've also offered choice words, have online access. Jimmi Shrode, who is afraid of me, may too. Jimmi is afraid of me, instinctively, and he should be, but he can walk, and has what he wants, at least until Erik dies. I'm alone; I'm in pain, and I live in an environment I never wanted to be, and all you fine players can't handle it.

From the beginning

When I transferred from LiveJournal to Blogger in 2009, I stated, implicitly, that I would not link to any graphic pornography, and I have been faithful to that assertion, however many suburban families I may have offended. I have been explicit in the content of my posts, discuss psychopathy, but I do not link to anything graphic. My warning fag may not be enough, however, and Blogger seems intent on taking my voice, as it is, out of the public domain. I can't fight Google, especially as direct contact with the company is difficult. I telephoned CS a few times about AdSense when I still had the money to invest, and still couldn't reach anyone.

In essence, the inequality I am living as a resident of Philadelphia is beginning to reflect itself in online paywalls which I do not have the funds to penetrate, and if Blogger forces my posts to go private, what is the point? I am not quite sure how the new policy will affect this domain, just yet, but this is six years os my life, the depletion of my savings, the twilight of a disabled woman's not really so matriculated integration into the full fabric of American society. and buying my domain no doubt wouldn't resolve the issue. I have looked into other sites which all pretty much say the same thing. Freedom of expression is fine as long as it doesn't incite, express hate, advocate violence, and we're not responsible for anyone's content.

Yet, when Dorner was still alive and I expressed my psychological alliance, my content was reported, and Blogger left things alone, although I have been frank about my disillusion with a legal framework that cannot repair the considerable damage done to me as a quadriplegic who wanted to make good. I'm not sure where this leaves things.

Like anyone, my ability to be independent is contingent, and I have focused intently on Liberty Resources and public housing, between the lines, because the system has a chronic illness, which will go terminal if people stop paying attention; nevertheless, it's closing in on me, and it isn't fair, and I refuse to submit.

In the Stockholm of Neuro diversity

"It's not a PC thing."-- Amy Harmon

Ms. Harmon's facial expression lends itself to superciliousness, and this is what centered my focus on her appearance at the end of a brief documentary about Rosie Glynn, her widowed mother, who teaches writing in the Pittsburgh area, and the younger Glynn sister, who is normal. Rosie is mentally retarded, and is herded like a livestock animal in a curtailed supported employment program, a very regulated form of slavery for aggressive imbeciles who are aggressive because they know their minds are a garbled bouillabaisse.

Amy, mind, has made her specialty out of the developmentally disabled autism spectrum. Case manager once removed, which is why her disingenuous expression is so easily read in her evasions, telegraphing itself loud and clear. The progressive expansion of radical equality isn't going to stop until our desiccated bones merge in ecological empathy for a blade of grass. Not that I don't understand. 

On the contrary, I weep for Rosie, pity her mother, and realize the younger sister will deploy the psychiatric profession at some point in her maturity in order to handle the emotional guilt. I comprehend why Rosie Glynn removes oxygen from the dining room, creating a vacuum which crushes the soul 20,000 leagues beneath the sea.

Five years ago I wrote that I wasn't going to deal with agenda films like this often, but now and again they have to be included, because Amy Harmon struggles with the brutality of forthrightness to the degree that she herself is more the monstrosity than an adolescent screaming at her mentally ill mother to have an abortion, getting whipped across the face for it, and with a bloodied eye, almost going into foster care. This is the vitriol for which the fortunate, if droll, poet, Amy Holman, rebuked me, a vitriol that would have turned my half brother into a fetal carcass, as so many women do with their pregnancies. It is all about the demeanor, how we get censored, how we conjoin Asian women with their abortion rate. Bill Kurtis is offering an expose. I use his story with an undercurrent of divisiveness that incites Indian women with indignation. What's my point?

*
All I wanted to do is go out to dinner, enjoy the man's company, and fuck him, if applicable. I was healthy enough at the time to still engage in a romper room frolic, whether he needed Viagra or did not, and I still feel it. No matter how much I might humiliate my former editor, nothing will return the moment to me, the heightened magic of anticipation, that she destroyed lashing out at him over her keyboard, right in front of my eyes. Please. Don't tell me to buck up and keep trying. I lunged at nearly every possible opportunity I could since I was 36.

What man wants me at 52, with only the virtue of thinning pubic hair? I know women do this to each other, but what I did in my past life to wind up drawn and quartered by the ultimate third world den mother with multiple sclerosis must have been unimaginable. If I ever see her again, for all my physical vulnerability, she'll feel my scorn, the all consuming bitterness, like a phoenix reborn out of bone ash. I have to keep revising, keep pushing, now the blog, now the article, my only polish a glittering ferocity.