Bleeding Ego

"It deserves its own taxonomy of suckitude." Julia Scott, more cutesie than a grandiose spastic

If you put this online you'll regret it immediately, interior conscious intoned. Interior conscious voice was absolutely correct, and the piece isn't kept for it virtual jazz with a composite of a man whose intellectual energy was all but fatal to a precocious disposition embedded in quadriplegia; it isn't kept for the sake of the fact that it serves as a bad apologia for not doing the work toward dissertation, nor for self-pity.

Given that, writers need to know when to throw something out, move on: my animosity toward my philosophy professor was unconscious when I was 21, but age has seasoned an intense dislike: he did sleep with a student, did hurt her, and I did get angry, and it did have repercussions I shall  leave unstated. Some wounds are worth picking; some aren't, and naked bodies horrify me when I am not ready, and when I am, make me laugh callously. Penises seem to convey evolution has a sense of humor (can I hear Richard Dawkins scoff? see how Catholic atheists and Anglican atheists get on? Dawkins and I would come to blows in roughly five minutes on the talk circuit). I keep Discard because I am trying to get at something, and may keep some elements of the meta-autobiography.

There are interesting imperfections and, more simply, just imperfections, and knowing the difference takes seasoning.

The spastic in the story was present in the narrative before my (ahem) nervous breakdown, and I asked myself if I was a latent lesbian like Fern, the Jewish Trotsky who case managed with an iron fist and was driven out by my favorite transsexual. I have known too many faggots for my own good, after all, and I've created bisexual women for my own subversive intentions, so that must mean something, but masochism isn't the same thing as gravitation: breast nipples and and the modesty of the labia do not arouse me. 

However, my now nefarious supervisor was causing me pain, and I kept talking. Real fucking smart solution, and 14 years to even begin to ease my trauma, being disparaged by colleagues, classmates, because two women with cerebral palsy, slighting-touched by it more than some, inflicted so much damage on each other. I miss Linda Dezenski. She was the peer I never had growing up, and needed, and while she and I were screaming at each other on the phone, 14ish years back, "What do you want from me?" She wailed. Enough respect, for a start, for her to admit her liability, make amends for it. If people like her are true believers, that is what you do.

How is this a tutorial on revising and discarding, again? 

As if one cannot have too much redunancy

"Instead of running away from this monster, I made the decision I should try to confront it."--Jason Moss

My viewers will be positively ecstatic to learn I have had three works of fiction accepted for publication, two of which have appeared in print. Discard is not one of them, and I remain befuddled as to why I have not thrown this away, a love story for a man deified, not loved, tossed to notorious, now noxious,supervisor in email after she caught me off guard. Unwise, and she did not know how to respond, not at that point. 

Other manuscripts have been tossed, and I stopped submitting this work long ago, back when it was eight pages and a tabloid called Clinton Street Quarterly, I believe, actually mailed me a rejection letter of more than one paragraph. I may even still have it, astonished then, and still perplexed now. Why I've thrown it up on Medium is because I can, because fear is pervasive, because Jerry looks like a nephilim cricket right out of Men In Black, and I'm a sow with flaccid breasts and an occlusion indicative of congestive heart failure, and perhaps I'm curious, within my burgeoning discontent of not tearing the thing to shreds and coming in harder, what my other not financially successful peers think, and Blogger needs to learn my dark side has always been under the umbrella of the Inferno.

Much like Cameron Diaz in Garcia's sympathy fettered lens, a disabled woman can extrapolate why Jason Moss committed suicide: because Gacy was as human as the rest of us, because intimacy with the heinous isn't a salve if one cannot cease being preoccupied with it, and he no longer knew how to come up for air. Choosing to be a euthanasia advocate is not the same thing as desiring to take Moss'es route: I've been under the thumb of one sleaze bag corporate-shielded landlord for 30 years, fighting Philadelphia's underclass depreciation for most of that time, desperate to experience something else, knowing the specter of less functional constraint is closing in, and I'm failing to find that leverage to get the fuck up the river bank. Both my former boss Dan and former? helper Karina told me I'd be happier in Denver and Oregon, respectively. I'd take one of these nut cases on, die a heroine. DARK KNIGHT FEMALE TAKES SPREE SHOOTER DOWN: Woman had a history of trolling, impulse control issues.