Seepage Encroaches

"I've learned to fear the law," Sam Waterson

De Niro might have reasonably ended his acting career with City by the Sea, a film whose parallels are too contrived even if they are based on verifiable events. Why soften the story? Why not allow Joey LaMarca to be vicious and premeditated? Because Frances McDormand represents the tyranny of feminine insistence? William H Macy brought up something interesting on HuffPost Live, which will feature as many varieties of melanin triggered chocolate libertines with stiff dreadlock expressions as they will acutely ignore disabled voices-- but Macy brought up something which has interested me in my maturity as a writer, which is how those related to predators who engage in the unspeakable cope with it. Similar to my younger brother and I, only worse. Nicholas junior was your typical strung out ape who actually did have the police nearly kill him at gunpoint when they chased him into New Jersey, near Asbury Park, if its drug scene as depicted here still held true for the late Reagan era, but that my brother victimized his father by raping a tenant, and since my aggravated assault under this same rental corporation was similar this is why my antagonism with Richardson is so prevalent. I do hate Trudy Richardson because she is black, but I hate her more because she refuses to be accountable for Presby's negligence. The tenant my brother raped sued my father, and that legal action marked the beginning of the end for our family security. I never sued Presby, and I had a case, hence by any rational measure, I should not still be a tenant with them, even if they did spin off the Diamond Park units. I never sued my erstwhile independent living center either, and I had a case, more than a case, and yes, I am now willing to go to prison for something as abstract and intangible as never having truly received justice.

Whatever my deceased brother's pathology, it was run of the mill, however driven by insatiable brain chemistry. Franco makes it look chic, but in Little Nicky, a title only ever deployed by Adam Sandler's mediocre depreciation, the drug use was chillingly atavistic. Nicky ceased being human long before AIDS weakened him to the point that meningitis wasted him away, his mind mostly vanquished even years before; my mother walked him around like one of Michonne's collared rotters, though we're never quite informed why the walking dead she chained to herself didn't bite her into the zoophytic zone, but the answer isn't so perplexing. She's a lead. But what of the Tunisian attacker in Nice? Does he have a father, a mother, siblings? I am a capo at heart, and what he did, the Tunisian lorry driver, separates him, puts him apart, even from operatives like bin Laden; it was a low cowardice attack. If I strike my enemies, it might entail consequences, and yet be comprehensible. I trusted people like a second family. I let a huge senior rental corporation "off," and they humiliate me in a gift which keeps giving, re: Chris's ogling, but the Tunisian's actions were beyond any form of strategic comprehension; if we presume his family has a conscience, the story of how they live with it and cope certainly seems the new intrigue at hand.

Wheelchair cushion rinsed, about to be put back together, my true challenge not to fear another slip off. But I have to return to using it, as the base of the Jazzy is too hard. Shins and thighs suffer alike, and I'm going to trot around, attempting to sell some bits this week, during the convention, raising a little cash on pity, perhaps. If Erdogan's purges are indicative of what civil unrest might look like under a Trump administration, the worries of the left are too ominous. Entertainment may be increasingly politicized, but authoritarianism is increasingly Hollywood; by that metric, it isn't self sustaining.  See what happens when I lose a background research piece?

Foster Care Inconstancy in Millibars

"If someone gets shot they should stay shot."-- William H. Macy, or, as I like to say, "all cats are cats".

kimmy has her own peculiar characteristics, one of which is insisting I get off wretched fecal and urine sinkhole mattress when she insists upon it; her mew has a grating high pitch of protest even as she purrs on pillow above my head, bushing out her tail, and befriending the latest super mouse as opposed to killing latest super mouse, but as all my boys have died in this accursed Riverside studio, what am I to do? I applied myself to a grief counselor over Oliver and grief counselor iterated in bourgeoisie fashion that my male felines were my family. Oliver was put down shortly after mother drop in 11/05, and a part of me says fuck this shit, and another part is devastated beyond expectation over Joey's little brother. 

By all of Jesus F Christ, Vincent was a difficult and badly behaved wingman, I should be relieved, by any objective measure, especially as I suspected feline senility, and in part I am, but would like to string some humans up, particularly my own sex, and smoke them like a flank of bacon. I miss my baby boys, and need to get out of this place. Most of you have little idea what a public housing transfer entails and I don't even have the money to pack even if a mega tantrum gets me an exceptional transfer in Sims district; more of the same petty vindictiveness of nigger class poverty, in my deplorable bar stool diction, nine years away from the section 202 age requirement, and I know I don't have them, those nine years.

No expert in astrophysics, I nevertheless assumed if our sun went nova that the destruction of Earth would be nearly instantaneous, so I am uncertain as to what Niven is saying in his dodgy North Hollywood metaphor, nearly certain that I'd hate Vancouver, playful and dynamic as it appears, it certainly doesn't appear to be cyborg friendly.