Terms of Service

The Peruvian Maoists killed people with rocks, clubs and knives in hand to hand combat.-- Santiago Romcagliolo, page 148

The effects of nicotine vapor shortage, and the custodial employees doing me a favor, so they believe, by unlocking my door to leave pet supplies in the kitchenette; it disrupts my colon solidification, my need to stay off my pressure sore; sometimes leaves me unable to go back to sleep without pushing toward exhaustion. If I forbid Mike Pera or Niles entry in relation to what may be added labor for me to push up to my unit, I may end up regretting it, but Wednesday morning was physiologically frightening, even with pastrami and a nice spinach salad; no coffee, though I need a pot this evening, two and a quarter cups with the big fellow here; not sure if my total caffeine intake has increased accordingly, just as I'm equally uncertain if I should apologize to viewers for behaving like the typical road rage quadriplegic. Despite my efforts, I am a quadriplegic who has sustained systemic modal failure, and I could not lock in focus, and relaxation, with Pera's horse's ass boot jacking and my need to clean up after cats I am weary of raising, bound in obligation.

So you saw a peek of how similar I am both to David Foster Wallace, with too much heart, and an Alawite  member, with vested and ruthless interests. A calcified outcry not quite contained by the 3600 milligrams of salmon oil, though by now the dead spawn has done its saturation. 

Adaptation was never the main issue: When John and I knew each other as students, he captured in his critique of my work how cerebral palsy altered my spatial relation; it was an astute capture from the man whose children I longed to womb gestate. He is the only Italian American whose sons and daughters I wanted to bring into the world, but this is my point. All I possess, to countermand the sexual assaults and institutional cruelty I sustained, is longing for what I cannot conceptualize, literally: bipedal motion and perspective.

Violations I know. Walking on two feet might as well be as fantastical as warp drive. Back to work, but I do not see my desire for controlled euthanasia as irrational. If I have been brutalized out of the meritocracy, I'll be damned if I will allow a nursing home to utilize my body for a malpractice portfolio.  

Dance The Jitterbug

Come learn how to care for the feral and stray cats in your community and make use of the many resources now available to assist you

The line between commiseration and pity can be porous, or run the gradient of a fine tooth comb. I feel an ironic level of antagonism that I actually feel sorry for Leonard Nimoy. I have been blessed by fawning old niggers, comforting me with their liberation theology Jesus, since I was sweet sixteen trying to get laid in NYC (blacks need to learn to stop pulling this shit; it's getting old boys) and I feel sorry for the man who was Spock. A talented actor typecast into a wax figure, and I feel sorry, as if I should go run and buy his book that every entertainer writes when they become identified with their roles.

To satisfy my travel mug fetish I was going to buy this one. I've left it bookmarked, as it is chic, but I spotted this one on site, four dollars less, and if I start dosing a pot a day we're in trouble, like mice under the oven.