Australia aroused special doubt. --Tatyana Tolstaya, my favorite Tolstoy relative.
I came on actually to mine Google on Ryan O'Neal, vaunted cancer patient and parent of disabled son, and wound up pitching to a small zine on FB because I knew no other way, and I begin to get upset with how I am supposed to interface with media platforms if no one is using email anymore, and here I am, whining, wondering how I am going to prove what I told CATO about my thesis on this movie, the hot and sexy Driver. Cato no doubt said "Say what?" It was not a formal pitch. I just told them cripple with the brain that wouldn't die might be on her way.
I hate Niume, honestly, and I've been filing my buttocks on sandpaper to write decent posts, and still hate them. No, they have done nothing. Yes, they have better collaborative bloggers than I, few, and far, between, and I hate them anyway, because I cannot write 900 penny posts for 10 dollars, but my mind is writing them. Just who the holy fuck do I think I am? Christ. Cripple of the 500 things before she strokes, fractures her fused thick hytonia clenched feet, stained with waste and dead skin, coliform dead skin. My aunt looks horrible. She doesn't carry her weight as well as my mother did, and I ponder how well she's walking on that knee joint. My cousin is just as obese, but freaked out that her baby boy might have had a chronic disease due to involuntary head movements-- this is your attitude about conditions, and yet, you all want me to be nice, civil, applying community standards. I did not get into this with my cousin. Yes, I get it. Mothers freak until the kid is eighteen, and then carry survivors's guilt if the child dies from an OxyFendayl overdose, or gang war, but still. You don't abort us, but if we fuck up a few times? Oh.
Any ambulatory person not homeless would have suicided at this point in my personal circumstances, pointing toward my ambivalent relationship with Tolstoy's messianic arc enveloping the agony of soul.
Showing posts with label coliform. Show all posts
Showing posts with label coliform. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 28, 2017
Friday, December 2, 2016
Short Fuses
"Me? I'm just another cop."-- Falk's first episode
Levinson wasn't that progressive with his Jewish American Maigret. The closest Falk gets to a psychotic homosexual antagonist is McDowell's histrionic chemist, another episode which relies more or less on psychological cheating. Back then we didn't have bomb signature forensics fed to an increasingly mistrustful audience. Falk's audience believed in him, there was no doubt about that, though they may have believed slightly less in Gene Barry.
Spastic recognizes her error, and understands Blogger's indirect data conversation: Barry was the Burke's Law puzzle solver, and what I was looking at was the 67 pilot which I mistook-- at least I think. Barry looks relatively aged in "Prescription," and I'm not so literate on my parents decade that I remember Barry's run as the Playboy bunny captain. The Jack Cassidy pilot is superior, at least with Spielberg's taunt pace. Why can't I be more like screen guild writers and pull a few fast ones?
Chair is charged, three quarters of urine obeyed (unlike poor little kimmy) and stayed mainly in my bursting bladder when I rolled up and transferred without so much as a blink. Christmas present to self shall soon be new urinal. The old one is far too cracked for me to bleach clean. I can hear God fearing nuns recoil at my indifference to coliform. But the moral here: Frank's urinals were always clean. Frank is dead. For a dowager on the midline to sixty, medically, I am fairly stable, meaning the dirty cripple meme may not be as bad as we think.
I'm so paranoid I am afraid to telephone the Department of Corrections for research. I don't need to see women in scrubs having their behavior controlled. I have documentary footage memory, I have Christ knows how many prison films and Orange Is The New Black articles in my head, along with St. Elsewhere lesbianism yanking Howie Mandel's chain-- but, in returning to a fiction I've always cared about, I was about to use a 21st century facility, an anachronism I would not necessarily wish to justify as a post modern conceit, so I'm pulling a fast one too, of a slightly different tack, so paranoid I am assuming Trudy Richardson has initiated eviction proceedings against me because the rental receipt isn't under the door; we shall see, but if she has, I have a longer window. I believe, passionately, that American public housing will ultimately destroy the country. I mean that, though I haven't been overly forthcoming with prescriptive solutions. We'll get there, and it is one of the reasons I am following Vanessa Calder. Conservatives need to pay attention to what felled disabled women who had the capacity to matriculate. It is not a pipe dream that many of my early teachers saw me as Harvard material, and, though normally, I do not follow trending media, today I shall:
1. I am sympathetic to eugenics
2. Freaks put on display are going to get blowback. Obstetricians should have euthanized the Smith child, and no one has the right to ask me how dare I say that. I've been to facilities where we die in our surreal primate groupings.
Levinson wasn't that progressive with his Jewish American Maigret. The closest Falk gets to a psychotic homosexual antagonist is McDowell's histrionic chemist, another episode which relies more or less on psychological cheating. Back then we didn't have bomb signature forensics fed to an increasingly mistrustful audience. Falk's audience believed in him, there was no doubt about that, though they may have believed slightly less in Gene Barry.
Spastic recognizes her error, and understands Blogger's indirect data conversation: Barry was the Burke's Law puzzle solver, and what I was looking at was the 67 pilot which I mistook-- at least I think. Barry looks relatively aged in "Prescription," and I'm not so literate on my parents decade that I remember Barry's run as the Playboy bunny captain. The Jack Cassidy pilot is superior, at least with Spielberg's taunt pace. Why can't I be more like screen guild writers and pull a few fast ones?
Chair is charged, three quarters of urine obeyed (unlike poor little kimmy) and stayed mainly in my bursting bladder when I rolled up and transferred without so much as a blink. Christmas present to self shall soon be new urinal. The old one is far too cracked for me to bleach clean. I can hear God fearing nuns recoil at my indifference to coliform. But the moral here: Frank's urinals were always clean. Frank is dead. For a dowager on the midline to sixty, medically, I am fairly stable, meaning the dirty cripple meme may not be as bad as we think.
I'm so paranoid I am afraid to telephone the Department of Corrections for research. I don't need to see women in scrubs having their behavior controlled. I have documentary footage memory, I have Christ knows how many prison films and Orange Is The New Black articles in my head, along with St. Elsewhere lesbianism yanking Howie Mandel's chain-- but, in returning to a fiction I've always cared about, I was about to use a 21st century facility, an anachronism I would not necessarily wish to justify as a post modern conceit, so I'm pulling a fast one too, of a slightly different tack, so paranoid I am assuming Trudy Richardson has initiated eviction proceedings against me because the rental receipt isn't under the door; we shall see, but if she has, I have a longer window. I believe, passionately, that American public housing will ultimately destroy the country. I mean that, though I haven't been overly forthcoming with prescriptive solutions. We'll get there, and it is one of the reasons I am following Vanessa Calder. Conservatives need to pay attention to what felled disabled women who had the capacity to matriculate. It is not a pipe dream that many of my early teachers saw me as Harvard material, and, though normally, I do not follow trending media, today I shall:
1. I am sympathetic to eugenics
2. Freaks put on display are going to get blowback. Obstetricians should have euthanized the Smith child, and no one has the right to ask me how dare I say that. I've been to facilities where we die in our surreal primate groupings.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)