Elbow Curvatures, Cast Off

You can also be addicted to hate.-- the manufactured paraplegic of Emerald City

Even though the majority frame it this way, and this includes me, and Blogger, in my antipodean merger of aggression and trolling and gleefully rationalized spree killing, mourning that I shall never have the luxury of splitting Richardson’s skull open before disappearing into the dusk: the nigger with her protruding frog eyes and buck teeth conniving, she has beaten me. She contracted my father and his sister into hiring a cleaning service which wiped out my command of my domain. I did give my notice, but it is extreme duress not to have any control of my own space, and in a power chair in which my strength has been wasted. I cannot use this bucket seat for anything else but driving myself around, with emaciated ligaments screaming at me in pain to quit. I’m crying in small episodes, revealing my darker side to this sumo wrestler Muslim I lose in 13 days. She is a stupid fat bitch, hurting and bruising me up, and this is the dues I’ve paid to the Obama Administration. I cannot be ugly with the stupid fat Muslim without generating more crisis. It’s Barry Levinson, it’s Oz, at a pace more malingering and cruel, only slower. My only crime: getting overwhelmed with poor central planning and bad nutrition, living past 55. I might as well be nigger prag (not that I’ve translated the slang for prison rape) not that anyone is fool enough to engage in domestic insurrection for me. The joke is orthopedic medicine and disability activism hasn’t tortured me enough: the ambulatory majority, applying brute force, telling me to adapt, has decimated my strength, and when you’re bowed down in concentric circles, in such a fashion, the deployment of free speech, advocating for men like Craig Brittain only illustrates the fact that aligning myself to the far right hasn’t deregulated me into a safe haven. I messaged Craig once after Twitter allowed him to return. Could he pick me up at the Texas border? Dead serious, I did not persist, and no libertarian has truly befriended me. Suicide, or regimented agony until I careen into the inevitable death spiral, digital connections have left me on my own. Not that it was my right to impose on Mark, across the pond, or even Craig, but I was looking for an individualist willing to at least partially take on the burden I represented, they themselves not realizing, Craig, particularly, that companies are not beholden to the First Amendment. Jack has the perfect right to give Twitter the personality of a smore, and Google can shut me down for my embrace of violence as part of the simian psyche out of which we evolved, though in my case, it is more for an agenda than indiscriminate mayhem. It is now amusing that I was willing to take a ban for a cautious oddball who dumped my account despite my loyalty. What does it matter now? My anus, urethra, every bit of my biology weakened. Nine weeks, a cacophony of bitches telling me this is how it has to be, unless I have the strength for poison, if I haven’t waited too long.  

A Libertarian Will Pull Up Your Woolens

"I don't hate anyone." Mike Baduchio, political operative-- (sic)

This evening I actually made it to my first Libertarian Party meeting in winter, this due to prior knowledge that I could ramp it up onto the Irish Pub's portico, and I met my first local libertarian politician, Ken Krawchuk, a bit of a ne'er do well with a grizzled  out of Montgomery County, running for Guvenor against the seemingly insipid Tom Wolf.. He has run for the governorship several times, Mr. Krawchuk, and told me to write about meeting him, his tutorial on canvassing, being a wedge issue bitch in general-- not that he told me to write that, but I can be as disillusioned with libertarian political chapters as anything else, always a distant fourth rail in the American primary system. I met new people, old people, all my white boys, promising energetic turks, the geeks, the pot bellied stoners, the disruptive quadriplegic barking orders, spending money she wasn't prepared to,  birthday gift not cleared yet due to bowel and holiday, meeting Molly and Mitch, the servers, and Mike, Krawchuk's handler. I broached Milo, and was respected enough to be asked about the state legislature. Was astonished to be asked. I did not say Brian K Sims should be torched, but would have liked to. Instead: "the state legislature is corrupt, on both sides of the aisle."  And emoted strong feelings about the demise of Kahleen Kane. I called her Harris and Ken corrected me, only small notches of my 17 year distress escaping. I did not bring up my life threatening self-evacuation that is scaring me so much my problem might solve itself with a mid-July stress death, putting my life in jeopardy to do this as it was. On a full charge, the dilapidated Jazzy barely made my 23rd to Market to 20th and Walnut trisect and back the same way. The Quantum balks at the cold, which should be worse this time of year, but I live in the chair, and this is not the reliable P-200. I'm obviously wearing the battery down with constant use, and have another mental hand of cards to play, as this machine is only giving me three and a half hours run time, at best, with the short. I wanted to press Krawchuk. Kindly colorful figure he may be, why keep doing it, being the wedge bitch, the thorn? But I've made this click my family: Kokesh, Miller-Miller, Stiles, and poor Craig. Libertarianism, local, national, this is my psychiatry, and doing some libertarian stories, even getting a scoop, (possibly) this may be part of my final act. I was going to be stark, and as hollow as a snub-nosed cartridge, but I am too empty of feeling, so drained I cannot summon the will for the caustic erosion, ignoring, for example, that there was an African American stud in the mist, as well. We are diverse. I am simply the only spaz, the dowager, being asked permission by the kindly stout wife of the operative if she could pull up my socks. She did,. My mother must be turning in her grave, that this is the solution I've given myself to, as if these fractious individualists would sacrifice themselves to rescue me from Center City Niggerland. Don't feed me shit about freedom of mind. I've lived a fucking holocaust, with interludes, without a scintilla of hope to possess something so vital as private property. Will still bobbing, with all these hooks, baited as a catfish.

Heaven's Mirage with Faustian Indentation

The poor basically receive good health care. --David Ward, with egregious presumption

Niume imploded my expectations in one fell swoop. I was all set to monetize and jump in, expecting my own little niche, and hit a brick wall in a cascade of what the fuck utterances. They have no hyperlink code, just a You Tube link, or Vimeo, and I am not huge on generating my own graphics. My nerves have been sufficiently unsettled, and my account sign up is probably doomed. I say wait a little, we'll see, but I built up all that wariness to enter preschool, a bit of fluff, for nothing. The Ryanism summarized by McDuffee in 2012 coincides with the interplay I saw between the Speaker and Judy Woodruff last evening, but liberals are apparently fain to see Paul Ryan as the Rational Monolith, standing as the bulwark of last resort against the Donald, who, in reality, is Lucifer's vessel, without seeming to sufficiently recall, even though Dickerson said it on PBS, that after John Boehner's fractious departure, Ryan put out a press release, stipulating, "I am not running for Speaker," and there was, in the House, a bit of a Freedom Party bromide, and then Ryan was the conciliatory consensus choice. He did stand up to Trump during the election, and the center left is being unreasonable in its expectation that Ryan will fall on his sword because old New York bull is behaving like a bull. I did vote for Trump, and my damaged mind believes it is able to read into him, and my invective is worse than his: If I described, in detail, whose neck I wanted to break, using my footpedal as a garrote of hatred, the poor happy playful employees who keep Blogger healthy would have a problem, and the dowager understands that getting too specific in her intent challenges law, regardless of whether or not she has the strength to overtake certain persons frightened of her, and have her moment of Hannibal liberation. I am a diabolical mind of smoking vengeance. Trump is an reactionary protectionist asshole, and I cannot respect him, nor his solutions. If the Speaker, or Senator Toomey, for that matter, chose to upbraid me that for such a smart invalid you know better, what would I do? I'd look Toomey straight in the eye and say, then be my avenger, punish them, give me justice, then hire me to to lay progressive America to waste.

I understand Ryan, his sense that inclusion solves the isolating friction of identity politics, but he cannot undo the damage of southeastern state incompetence that created and fosters aggression. There is no Right Hand of Time, to append a Thomas Lux title, to put me back to a vigorous 35 of twenty years ago, as my twitter numbers jump during episodes of inactivity, sag when my militancy shines. It is depressing, impossible to take seriously, or vicariously live within my timeline for too long, which is why, if, when I'm ready, I press twitter's staff about Craig, it is making access to the micro blog more important than it is. Discussing the twitter ban list on twitter is more of a provocation than a quadriplegic angry enough to critically injure expendable, fairly vacuous, African American oppressors. Back to work.

Traditions of Prague Foment

The Prague Spring had risen up from below, from the people themselves.-- Oleg Kalugin, Spymaster, p119

I do sometimes wonder why Twitter administrators haven't banned me. I've upset the kids, unwittingly, the teens yelling at me: "Chill Out!" and I've radicalized myself along libertarian sentiment enough to go to jail, just like Erik used to do. My favorite transsexual has a jacket, a sheet. Whatever your preferred usage-- but my willingness to act on my anger illegally springs from non-compliance. The mostly dead Erik  acts from the  radical left. Me? I want to destroy the entire system, from disability intakes, which are ineffectual outsource models, to HUD. If young libertarians like Craig have little love for the Federal Reserve, my hatred for the Department of Housing and Urban Development is as pristine as Ebsen's follies with Texan crude-- but not now. I'm sick, and it will take me two weeks to clear, give or take, with my stores of Mucinex, and, while I am unsure about my battle with Blogger, had I not purchased the domain, I sort of can pity the gatekeepers

Zuckerberg is a kid. I feel perfectly entitled to kick his meta-swindling billionaire ass, because, he, like you, refuses to look at the near genocidal price of the American welfare state, and I remember the twitter kids interviewing on public television. They aren't my censors, got that, but twitter's top brass have wedgies up their crotch. And I myself have gone a little off on the "follow and drop." When I was new to micro aggregate in 09 I had to learn, didn't quite get it, and got sore at a crime aggregator. I let it go, but really got mad, and swing expletives with Nixonion relish, and still feel sad for certain liberals who mattered to me; losing Nate was my fault, however. The flippancy of the ambulatory world just got to me when I looked at the other South African post graduate's blithe poise. Suck it up people, meet limited travesties like Gladhandler, trolls like me. Take us out to ball games, stop leaving us at the mercy of niggers who have no other choice. Stop running away from us. But now I have to work. Jeffrey gave me an idea. He can reject me 20 times, but I am determined, before I pass, to play in his league, and so I shall. All my other tabs are closed. Clean coffee pot, then hit boiler room. Some of you know the term.

Death Knell of the Knell

If anything killed my appreciation of the digital  medium, it's Facebook. Much like Yabberz, I don't like it, though most of my feed is my family behaving like the American Catholic class. I understand it is like anything else, account links and feed, but it's rather killed the internet for me, all tacky, flashy, bread and circuses. I prefer Twitter, though we all have to resist that to some degree. Yet I am uneasy, because there is spillover, and not just the Chicago attack. People do horrendous things, thinking what, that they'll get a following for engaging in victimization?
Craig Brittain and I make an unlikely alliance. I followed him first, primarily because Uber models intrigue me, and anything I might apply to make independent living less static is worth paying attention to. He complained this afternoon about leftist troll accounts, and I waded in without need of reference, without backing down either, and he kindly gave me permission to explore opportunities with him, so I sent him a LinkedIn connection request. I'm not partial to LinkedIn either, but it is necessary for me to maintain a presence there, even if I find work-- but I am unsure indicting Twitter's administrators to crack down on bogus accounts solves our freewheeling problems with  the online wild west. I myself am getting slightly over my head with libertarian factionalism, addressing Adam in the familiar as though he's remember the hard bitten wheelchair woman in her skirts, but that's neither here nor there. He proselytizes well for those who adore him; my alienated dissonance is of another timbre, however. Disaffection probably means I need some breathing space.