Emendation Vitae

Scottish newspaper literally saying I gave “guidance” to the shooter. This is completely inaccurate and almost certainly libellous. Please retract immediately. @Daily_Record pic.twitter.com/o5myhwDu9A

— Paul Joseph Watson (@PrisonPlanet) March 17, 2019

The above, and then:

Being involved in a legitimate discussion about the impact of mass migration doesn’t make me a radicalizer of terrorists, just as a Muslim criticising Middle Eastern interventionist wars doesn’t make him a radicalizer of terrorists.

— Paul Joseph Watson (@PrisonPlanet) March 18, 2019

I have no issues with Watson and a quizzling figurine like Candace Owens being who they are. Successful provocateurs are breakaways from the conventional human group dynamic. Candace Owens is a fool with occasional penetrations toward something intelligible. The shooter, now forever nefarious, was able to divine this, and the unfortunate Ms Owens seemed rather panicky in recent tweets, as if desirous of scattering in our cruel March winds. Watson takes a different tack, but I will affirm what his critics believe. He is culpable, perhaps not of offering the shooter *guidance*, but certainly for setting the groundwork, creating a febrile atmosphere for a new breed of martyr. That he cannot own up to it lessens his integrity.

But I do own up to it. My efforts at becoming a shock and awe blogger were gradual. I didn't start out saying to myself "gee, I am going to crucify disability activists, homosexual culture, secular liberalism and then convert to rather ineffectual anarchy with fantastical notions of destroying public housing." It took many steps, but unlike Watson, or Candace, I can't win. Beyond a certain core sympathy block, I cannot build my way into social media methods toward earned income. Does Google suppress me? Perhaps indirectly, as the search giant won't help me repair monetization. Does Twitter? Maga persons make claims in this direction, but me, I don't know. I am spammed, sometimes besieged, by purchase follower accounts with astronomical prices, but I do not have the hacker's expertise to cull dark web paranoia to my advantage, as I suspect Watson does, in our incendiary populist times. 

The Wasp Woman

"I had to do that."-- Susan Cabot in her final film

While I was pondering the lesson of Alison, realizing I never had that I never had the will such as that, the will to optimize for positive outcomes even without the benefit of being stabbed 37 times and left for dead in a gaming reserve, I chanced upon NBC's Reverie by accident. As of this writing, ZapIt no longer provides me with a local programming guide, and in my spastic inefficient manner, I now bounce from network to network when my nose isn't buried in Prime, wondering when, if ever, I will simply sit and read again quietly. Was it by sheer coincidence I caught episode 6, "Pas de Deux", with a paraplegic dancer in a rather disembodied atmosphere? I decided then and there to ditch the marginally better medical drama Code Black for Shahi's winsome, wounded, Marla, downloaded the NBC app, and with the pilot under my belt, have three of ten episodes viewed, as uncertain as published critics how unwitting persons of interest can be tricked into entering Reverie with interrogators without the command prompt, mindful that Hollywood's depictions of virtual reality are nothing new, just more prevalent, closer to the cutting edge, unlike Tron, which was a video game inside. Part of my frustration with the standard medical serial is audiences are cued to marvel at doctors as superheroes, when we all know this is mainly the furthermost thing from the truth. Care is a variance, and Reverie is more accurate than most about institutional processes destroying the individual character. Pilar's life as a cancer patient is ruthless and barren, and Marla's rescue of her in the turbulent Chile of 1973 is more pyrrhic than cathartic, just as doctors cannot do anything for my primary condition, or its secondary symptoms, until my immune system gives way to my now severely limited control. So my energies to restore my published history move at a monolithic pace, only in part due to the paraprofessional and his wretched daytime television. The discomfort I experience in this new model Quantum is more systemic than the old models which have preceded it, and I have taken inordinate droughts behaving like Tim Mccarthy's bludgeoned character in Remainder, a novel Amazon reminds me I purchased in 2010 of all my approximate 630 electronic titles, this personal narrator marginalized into apathetic numbness seems to be overtaking me with the prevalence of Marla's new hallucinatory uncertainty.
The paragraphs I lost on the day of Frank Versante's death are few. I pitched them to Quartz perhaps a year and a half back, looking for clues as to my original coffee piece path. Did I make sense to the editors? I don't know. They were polite, as always, but this reconstruction is catastrophic, unseen by anyone, even Galahad, whom I've ceased to reference. I have to breathe, despite the breadth of my digital losses, including my penny articles. I already know Blogger will not protect this account should I not memorialize it. Perhaps I should have anticipated this now violently sterile way of life, but I never saw it coming, that my entire legacy could nearly be wiped out due to poverty and lack of precaution. Whatever the rage of my betrayal by the wasted space insolence of homosexuals like Jimmi Shrode, this I do not deserve, not the loss of my every accomplishment, everything I aspired to. Real killers are actually memorialized. Journalists tell their stories. A week after the date of this post, I moved, made a pitch. It's something.

Follow The Zig

What elevates The Singing Detective is the way in which these threads gradually intersect: individuals from Marlow's childhood memories appear in his pulp detective fantasy; characters from the detective fantasy emerge in the 'real' hospital ward.-- John Cook

Without being able to fathom how digitizing a video feed works, I realize shooting video through a cell phone is incredibly easy, so just as ATT's proprietary secrets from the eighties spawned the troubled tech giants we have today, once the Defense Department relinquished Internet technology for civilian use, images vanished from three dimensional space, even vanishing on the two dimensional surfaces on which they were printed, though I imagine digital films can be converted to celluloid reels suitable to run on older projection technology, and I may look into it for a future feature, because the fact that things have gotten too easy may be contributing to the violence inflicting itself on the collective crowd. YouTube and other systems like it offer the lowliest voices a place at the table. By the same token, we are all lost in the sheer volume. During the #deleteFacebook trend, I responded to a nice twitter user by tweeting the now 18 accounts linked to my FB stream do not read my posts tagged to a specific relative. I take it in good humor, but lone wolves seem to increasingly find it desirable to take it out in ways that have never been done before. However we classify it, the end result is the same, with varying ripple effects. Sandy Hook shook me terribly, but it wasn't Columbine. Orlando left me ambivalent, and had me reported to the authorities in a ridiculous case of grandstanding that unraveled into the physical anguish I currently endure daily. Paddock's goldfish bowl tactics sickened me, and with the Florida high school shooter, I rather gave the viewers who find their way here the finger-- granted this was a dubious rhetorical strategism, but going postal in the corporate headquarters of a video uploading service  constantly at war with itself over what is and isn't accessible seems a quintessentially American act, whether over a rationalization particular to the aggrieved, or a domestic violence end game, as authorities now speculate that it was.

If you are on the left, and want to rewrite the Second Amendment, then you wind up with innocent citizens like Andrew Finch being killed by military police, or, even in my case, if you want Google's Alphabet services to suspend this account because layers of injustice fuel an impotent anger, would I be determined enough to teach myself code and defend a domain like a hacker? Is it worth it because I allow myself to engage in shock jock syndrome? Do I deserve to be tortured with the best of intentions in a state run nursing home because my definitions are so bold, so formerly defiant? If I published franchised pamphlets instead of posts in the immediate aftermath, would that be different, or just another variation of Richard Spencer's fraudulent mystique, the "crazy racist" in the Daily Beast catalog? He can engage social media civilly when he wishes, but twitter's de-verification of his account illustrates the symptomatic stomach virus of liberalism. Verification is merely supposed to indicate to the follower that personality x is personality x. It isn't going to change Richard's thought crimes gymnastics. He doesn't impress me, but neither does Twitter's sanction. Either ban the man or let him retain the cult following. I can do a scatological and daring musical from a hospital bed gasping for breath on incidental orgasms too, shedding snake skins. That is what we're processing in the not but almost post-conglomerate Facebook era. My public television affiliate took its dose of mock courage to air Dennis Potter's daring foray into how creative non-linear thinkers process coping mechanisms. The regional backlash was so fierce that WHYY never aired a seminal work of such melodramatic English playfulness again, in a decade where both Potter and the dowager were relevant concerns.

A Mission Creep Leap of Faith

I made a bet I’d last another year, despite chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, not quite so fast-acting as necrotizing fasciitis, and placed this dour domain on auto-renewal. It is true Sullivan’s closure of The Dish heralded the death of the blogosphere, as I continue to be less receptive to how he brings his experiences to bear on Trump era controversy. More on that later, while I plod along with no revenue because I write illegal threats I cannot carry out on my own, under no illusions: Even if I attract the crackpot elements, controlling them and creating incentives for enforceable codes of silence is another matter. When Pistorius had currency  in 13, I was unhappily conflicted over the events leading up to his disgrace. On the athlete’s side of the argument, even if he wanted to kill Reeva in a heat of the moment quarrel, he could have thought of a better strategy than “it was accidental” and then bawling himself into a pity party, though this last seems to have worked to his favor temporarily. Concessions may be given to the prosecution on the basis of the evidence, but where was this amputee’s incentive to kill the woman? He had everything to lose, unlike partisans, who are forced to utilize violence for autonomy, or to act against tyranny, and did lose it, his disability making him patently more vulnerable than a typical murderer, however that is defined in South Africa. My aunt argued with me about the case, equating Pistorius’ alleged fear of black crime as Americans would fear it in inner city Philadelphia, or the Bronx, or St. Louis, or Compton. The difficulty with this line of reasoning is that Africa is primarily populated by indigenous black natives, with allowances made for various Nubian populations, Africa belongs to black Africans. Europeans could not achieve in Africa what they achieved in the Northern Hemisphere, and into the sewer it goes, yesterday’s news pitted against a rare exceptionalism in a broken body made better than ableism through technical improvements on the bipedal biology. I wish reporters would follow up on these issues more often. If Pistorius is killed in maximum security because of his developmental birth defects, I doubt the Steenkamp family would find closure in a hypocritical justification. I am not excusing the man. He was a rare cross over hero against a majority that is so conflicted about deformities and damage in the first place, on one level just another he man venting misogyny, on the other, just another monkey who couldn’t be trust out of his cage. Flesh eating bacteria makes headlines because it is swift, and echoes pandemics of yore, if it isn't the opening salvo of the next. Complex mammals have few defenses against it; cases seem to be on the rise, and we've earned it, battling too hard against death as a natural process. My return will contain more of my leg crossing unpleasantness, terrain I've waded in before. We'll see whose stomach recoils first.

The Melnick Revolt Trigger

"There are dark forces at work here." Ian Anthony Dale

To deal a straight material hand this morning, lets revert back to anti-depressants, and assume, amid all the marvelous psychiatric diagnostic classifications available, that a turn of the century adjustment disorder graduated into traumatic stress, triggered deliberately by minorities trained to cordon off geriatric dementia, again, not the best environment to throw in formerly matriculated spastics burdened with quadriplegia. If I go on with this language, a medical textbook recruiter might take another look at my Linked profile, however ambivalent a disability journalist might be in that regard. Anti-depressants are used for more than serotonin regulation, and my skepticism about them doesn't apply to all treatment regimes, but when my mother's sister could talk over my head and exclaim, "that's better," when I was on that turn of the century script, for whom did the better refer? Not being able bodied, the drugs impaired physical ability to function, and cured nothing, however much my dead ex pig of almost husband observed, before he died, that I was getting worse. Frank did not move in here with his commanding army officer, whom he hated (yes, hated, I know, but he is dead and I won't get into it), but I am asked, by society, to grin and bear it every time a facetious transsexual, with whom I go way back, sits outside, its cognitive awareness diminished, smoking a cigarette, knowing what I know, the law letting him off, but not letting me off, why exactly? Because I am angry at how often corruption has destroyed my intellectual potential, and just like other Americans, I need a change of environment, and cannot effect it. Regardless of my condition, regardless of dimming economic prospects, regardless of Google's loving playfulness juxtaposed by its power, which I have nothing against, but have derived little trickle down benefit as a result (what possible use is Ad Words to me if all I am doing is paying into the company's services, again, this was me lacking the confidence not to purchase the campaign), I should be able to relocate, as a citizen of this ferrous republic, and cannot do it without facing what most consider irrational risk. I don't eschew Google's corporate muscle; its progressive proselytizing, that is another matter.

Enter in Danielle Melnick, making use of her ability to be Jack McCoy's intellectual equal, not always adversarial, in Dick Wolf's transformation of American crime dramas, or as the leader of the community Grimes managed to wreak havoc upon, perhaps inadvertently. That was as far as my local affiliate took me into The Walking Dead, but it was enough, as no one can withstand that much hell, that often. In Salvation, she is a stand in for what was expected to be the epitome of sexual equality. As Wiki indicates that the limited summer series was under development in 13, I doubt those who took it off the drawing board anticipated Trump, so in this slow burning coup in a complex asteroid disaster tale, one can infer that Melnick's very brief cameo, dying in a planned televised speech, was the industry's platitudes for girls, as "President McKenzie" was poisoned to death. Boys will be boys, in the grand scheme of things.


Fish oil, as my naturally occurring mood stabilizer of choice, seems to work as long as the continence issues can be managed. The dowager can feel, and function, on 2400 milliliters daily, taken with an actual fish diet. Again, this is expensive, but on limited evidence, seems to be more than a placebo effect. I only feel better, as of this writing, because I'm stocked, saturated myself with salmon, and hoping, fingers crossed, that I can make it to the Libertarian block party later today. If I do not take a bus, maybe I can spring the taxi. But I wish some of you could see the sum total. It is bad enough, being what I am. What Philadelphia has perpetrated on me, because I wanted independence, has been just short of too excruciating. Everyone needs a support system. A 56 year old shouldn't have to grope in the dark, treading in place solely due to inertia of the paradigms long set into place for relegation.

Digitalis

This is all I know, so far: AdSense, which is Shareaholic's derivative model, is a fee for profit advertising service. The account holder pays a fee, and receives a pay out for every 10 dollar accrual. I am far less clear about Ad Words, other than I have agreed to pay Google for the clicks. What the dowager gets out of it, as an improvised individual desperate upon desperate for a needed change, is entirely unknown. I can afford to allow the search giant to profiteer off my posts for one billing, and if I get nothing, then I'll cancel the campaign. but I am telling Google publicly, right now, that I may have softened my vehemence decibel, but my anger will never be entirely diminished. Everyone has a side, spanning the gamut, from Jewish supervisors to building managers, but I have 33 years of a hostile environment with exactly the same landlord under which I am a crime victim, repetitively. For those of you with better mobility, you believe you could live with this without disparagement?
Better than a shelter? Not by all that much, as I've dealt with shelter clients at Project Share, and it seems to make little difference whose rod is on their spine, the housing authority or the shelter managers. In addition to which, and this is my failure, alone, I let spend down methodologies evaporate my savings, savings which, if I do survive past 65, I needed. I literally have nothing, bar one, I frightened Presby's corporate office with the liability I have on them. That's it, that, and my 50,000 dollar education which garnished me a return somewhere in the neighborhood of 80k before taxes, roughly estimated. 

There is no discernible difference to this valiantly active domain, not yet, but the masses love the virtue of patience.

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Update: this was a failure of comprehension. No more ad words. The charge will be insubstantial. Notice all the help I am getting attempting to monetize my work, sigh.

Spaghetti Spin Offs

This thing needs to be destroyed.-- John Huston's Cronkrite as bastard

I unloaded some of my ever bridled fury at Niume's official twitter account Friday evening, for those of you paying attention to the needy outlets embedded in developmental damage, and of course it wasn't fair of me, for those of us old enough to remember what life was like writing penny articles before the bloated carcass otherwise known as the Department of Defense bequeathed us with the Internet, barely relevant as the noun is at present. Indulging my neurotic tendencies in the blogosphere may still be a writing exercise, but most of us no longer get paid, unless we're predicting stock market crashes, unraveling diverse financial instruments. Andrew Sullivan, late of the Daily Dish, whose sole dialogue with me, before I became a nasty Richard Spencer empath, was to send me a screen shot of my Amtrak building, was a master of the web log format, briefly became the go to institutional voice, similar to how Cato darlings emerge out of policy analysis onto the documentary video, spend their currency but maintain their admirers (Niall Ferguson?), and he still failed. I never succeeded, merely lit a precursor spark of nihilist rage, keeping illegal details against real persons mainly to myself, sometimes with heavy insinuation, survived Google's threat of suspension, which reminds me, the collective voice of the playful Silicon Ewe, on whom the fate of the world depends, sent me an email about resetting AdSense, which may be interpreted as permission to use despite my mafiaoso tendencies to derive satisfaction out of being a hate crime, but I haven't yet expended three or four gigabytes trying to unravel and regain access to my 3 dollars and change. Add in Niume's suspended revenue, that makes four, and I am, pretty much, into my last cognitive quality years, while James Bennet gets to play a tort pissant against everyone's favorite Alaskan female. Not that I haven't made errors, like misspelling a lawyers name, having for pay topics fall apart,  but poor, sympathetic James, who tweeted to me not to feel "guilty," made a game changing falsity. Who am I kidding? Whatever their political differences, Tim Gilmer and Charles Krauthammer are men with their respective province who broke their backs, able to emulate the memory of the ambulatory world they lost. Savants, spastics, such as I, merely conceptualize what we never were. Some of us actually can walk. Gimpy, pigeon toed, but none of us are important, and I've long blown my Inquirer capital. Twitter, thus far, allows my outages to glide, even if Niume's model illustrates what we cannot resolve: everyone can blog, but follower economics? Tenuous at best. My intellectual ally, Mark Antro, has an uphill battle, if Niume's failure to actually improve revenue generation is any indicator. Less collaboration, more accreditation, might work better, in collective venues. I am not sure, or uncertain, and I did not ventilate on Virily because they will be lucky if I post once in an eclipse. I should stop doing this altogether if I need revenue, in other words. 
Struggling with my memory, I may have read portions of The Man in the High Castle. I certainly read plenty of poor Dick, spared my wrath, much like Ben Gleib, whom I may have reduced unintentionally. I was attempting to be funny, and may change my mind and bring him back, despite my lack of context for his on camera role. I can say a few things about the series: the title theme song is ingenious. Only recently recognized Ridley Scott. Some actors are known qualities, and the stark brutality comforts me. Take that anyway you like. I will move the plunger along, but not this morning. I had a grave attack, one that tells me if I have to flee the Presbyterians, I had better ratchet up. My only relatively droll news is I got the battery to behave.

James Damore, Cause Celebre?

"Knowledge has replaced faith." --Kathy Baker, holding the fort

Having taken a look at Patreon, it is not a suitable venue for me. If they think a Canadian like Southern will get people killed, my beliefs about violence as an argument would shock them. Yes, I played nice, on the main, however stark some of my sentiments, on Niume, and the English left allowed me to vent, mildly, but Niume's staff seem to eat pastoral ecology like smores. However decorative its web interface, it genuinely isn't a collective for me, and Virily isn't a community for angry disabled Americans with anarchist streaks. I haven't given up on Virily, and they seem a little sharper than Niume, but my writing for Baltic states mimicking the west, methinks, must necessarily be limited. I was also mistaken about Due, and while not judging them, I am not entirely sure what they believe they can do for me.

Note to Due: I live on a very limited disability entitlement, like many in Japan, most of the Southern Hemisphere, etcetera, and wading through LinkedIn millennials trying to find some work I can do again in limited fashion has proven futile. You seem to be a consumer award venue of some kind of which I am not entirely clear, but I'll give it time.

What this means is I don't know how to divorce myself from Blogger. Wordpress would boot me in record time, from what I've gathered over the years, and I'm not quite hyperbolic enough, in IS fashion, for the dark net, even if the dark net twitter account -- the one I'm thinking of, could teach me how to do all those server bounces, and this would be the case even on days of stressed expletives. This said, if Southern and I had a hypothetical fight, I'd plow her in on the inside of five minutes, so I cannot see why Patreon had a panic attack. I am not trying to personalize anything, just to caution readers. I never heard of her before Scoop, and she seems a possible ally; nor was I spurious about riding her comet tail for a profile, I am only saying I can knock the ambulatory world on its myopic ass with neither regrets nor second thoughts. The Damore saga has whet my interest, intensely, but I cannot capitalize on it just yet. The so called "screed" obtained by Gizmodo seemed a relatively innocuous, drippy skim. I think we need to sit down and reconsider what we're doing with computer technologies.

Begrudging Victory

Hugo (2011) is a great 21st century film primarily due to its visual structure, and the effect of being shot in 3D. If I can acknowledge Scorsese's motifs and still find reasons to contend with them, he beats me here, hands down. This is what I get for believing he only shot in New York. The Paris we visualize in the opening has a fairy tale quality, the opening set up isn't afraid of leaving you utterly baffled, and the script offers us a dazzling feedback loop which only cinema can do, in all its magnificence. If I wasn't in such a crisis of age, I might have wept over the saga of Hugo Cabret and all his secret passages. Oh, the A-list team did its part, not Kingsley so much-- this type of role, an ambiguous character with secrets, is part of his terrain, but Lee as the stony, ominous librarian? Law as the myopic father who might have been nominated for sainthood? This might be a good place to quit Blogger. Beneath the surface of every liberal is the hypocrisy. The Internet did help me, but this was before social media had its shit fest, between 99 and 04. Since, I've been scrambling for pennies on my labor. All my words have changed nothing: Trudy Richardson is still a southern nigger transplant with bran for brains who has put me under nearly impossible levels of duress. Just because we do not speak it doesn't mean it isn't true. Lisa Durden understands this, so did Google's engineer. Both have suffered  economically for it. Where is the virtue of freedom of speech if, in corporate culture, it is financially punitive? The abuses I die with are a deck of cards with their own range of flavors, and as I've never been loved, I am too old to be capable now. I am not having the best week, but I will not go too far afield.

Delayed Pleasantries with Alphabet Subsidies, and Other Quandaries

...this can be achieved only by "carving out" a certain constellation of phenomena.-- Levi-Strauss, Structural Anthropology, p. 285

Having been tested for diabetes a number of times since my burn accident, which occurred during Brenda Williams brief tenure, before the RICHARDSON WARS (and I'm still here, barely, smile), and Williams too, just as Trudy, and Trudy's Gerber foods mentality, cited me for non-compliance, but she was kicked to curb for trying to go after every resident with strict compliance, and I mean strict. The PHA regulatory handbook is probably similar to the nefarious SSA POMs, and you'd be surprised what you'd learn reading the SSA POMs,. It is like a perverse variation of The Empire Strikes Back, the *business* of Social Security, its schemers, petty prison terms, but I have been tested, and told I am not diabetic. Granted that, in recent years, I have catered to cheap snacks and bakery since the 7 Eleven franchise opened. (I took many months become a frequent flyer, as I preferred a bodega further off, but 24 hour service and proximity and vaping supply transformed me into a power chair inconvenience). I am living currently on barely two meals a day, mostly bulk grains and potatoes and legumes, and moved a stool so large Tuesday evening I in fact cannot change the litter until I am sure not to clog, and remain fairly confident my bowel shall kill me before COPD suffocates me to death. Large evacuations indicate diabetes. Perhaps coffee masks it. I've cut down on fish oil, but for my petite stature what impaction does to me is stupendous, now and again.
 My problem with KDP is my uncertainty over formatting, and depending on how much of my output I apportion to being an independent, I have to learn, but I am a writer, journo, small j momentarily hopefully not forever but at my age I am not bucking hot zones. Perhaps there is a story there; what I am not is a designer, and I hope I can link my content page to my text. I really don't know how to do some of these things, and thus far, I have one Amazon guide. We'll see. In my early kindle years the amount of digital dreck worried me, and I do not wish to do that to myself, whatever my kinks, my flaws. I have them, including telling Amazon I wasn't going to buy anymore books due to a seller's delay with Levi-Strauss, and what a feeble threat, as I'm killing myself today to hang onto Prime. I keep grinding away at the conceit, the intellectual pretension, of changing the world through narrative skills, just as The Raw and The Cooked joined into the intellectual ferment of its time, difficult and giddy as an anthropological study as it is. I once believed I had Strauss's acumen, his ability, to invest in such important theses, so I am as egotistical as Roth, on a certain level. I wonder what you think, but then, I assume I already know, even if I cannot say what a detrimental impact my wounded voice has had, I really don't know, but yes, I have crossed lines decency prohibits, and in that, the dying hermaphrodite has gotten the message to engage as little as possible with me. I am working, however, whatever the odds against me, what else can I do? If it takes me until August to hire an attorney, then it takes me until August. And, if I bridle it and repeat like a chant, Google is not the enemy, it is no more than a tertiary issue: I cannot afford pay to play Ad Sense fees, certainly not in July, with a meager effort to put something in my stomach.

Oden's Hammer, with admissible discrepancies

Part of what I am attempting to do on Disability In Entertainment Arts is utilize my brain damage to my advantage, which is why I convolute so many things together. It doesn't always work, and my short lived protégé Louise Norlie indicated I might be less confusing, and less rushed, but some of my triggers are indicative of trauma no iconic personage can cure, like guilt over my online usage. I need to at the very least, mitigate this. My provider isn't an authoritarian dragoon. I may have had a little trouble mailing my bill in during the era of dial up , for which even I can scarf as a primitive folly, despite not being fully wireless- but I waited a little too patiently for ATT to convert to online billing, and I followed suit. I have been responsible, did everything they every asked of me, including the dreaded credit deposit. (Years ago, and yes, they returned it, but I am lucky I had over 30,000 dollars at my disposal to play these games.) Quelch. Now she is discussing long lost freedom of her personal finances. No one does that, nor do I, up to a point, but I am only attempting to illustrate how far my life imploded thanks to the false assurances of the disability intake model: When I was 23, still a rather fresh inner city body, I was in danger of starving to death, because the SSA field offices, overwhelmed, did not keep tabs on what their verifiable cripple was doing, and arbitrarily suspended my SSI. It points to why, unlike my dying father's sister, I am very very reluctant to depend on state welfare. I got through it then, but being very nearly in the same place, 32 years later, is obscene. I'm fully cognizant that I am less elastic, and yes, part of this falls on my shoulders: I resigned from The Matrix Research Institute like a water logged koosh ball, frightened of my clients, overwhelmed at losing my brother-- hence, "bumping into" my former manager from the center from which Matrix plucked me, this wasn't my best option, confiding in her through posts. My wounds over that permeate this entire account, revealing to me an implosive level of destruction which could, hypothetically, write itself out as a NSA political thriller spiraling into Armageddon.

Ten years ago, getting away from Presby terian Homes, this would have mitigated such terrible scars. [Riverside is the beige white tower if you want to rescue and thereby own my loyalty for life.] Now? I may have a case to sue the corporate office in Spring Mills from here to the center of the earth, but if I perceive an occasional overage as a crime against humanity. I am not really long on holding onto my sanity. My shins are going, but this doesn't mean a paraprofessional represents an optimal solution, you can trust me. I see too many abuses, even under Trudy's duress, using every weapon she can, striking out at me without realization of the consequences, because she is a moron, because Presbyterians hire minorities barely a step ahead of their brutal underclass on which they earn their salary, and there are far too many people like this, as opposed to those of keen acuity damaged by relentless cruelty. I have research to do, and may slow with Blogger for a time. I don't know if the company will allow me to code ads back in. They do not have to. I may, just barely, hold my inner savage in check, but I shall never be entirely free of the belief that people driven to violence have had too much amplified whippings. 

As for Louise, I don't know how she is faring under the Trump Administration. She was a nice girl. Our contact had too much subterfuge.

The upside of facetious

I sometimes lose track, due to seasonal changes, of the additional torments impaction inflicts, and feel easier now. Wednesday morning I thought my symptoms were indicative of stroke, when they were actually reduced diet binding to phlegm, perhaps reduced mammary tissue resiliency. I've lost weight, but not like a happier exercise infomercial. I do not know why I pay any attention to the Social Security Administration. It auto-mailed me me to review my benefit statement approximately 14 days ago. I ignored the prompt, and I'm wasting my usage on mild ire. With that Medicare deductible removed, my monthly budget would be less strenuous, despite the age and condition of the Jazzy. I have not yet acted, mainly because by eight thirty am night owls feather the nest, but I may act in any case, and live my narrowing quality time as I please, eschewing the single payer option, according to my beliefs.

I'm more libertarian than I realized, but we'll leave that for later. I believe I intend to open and monetize a Niume account Friday evening. I will not write "death to faggots," or discuss my pain at independent living centers-- but for some reason, I need to be just as much an esoteric wonk, and shift from deadly tyrannical quadriplegic to archaeologist, of a sort. I'll just give it a try, we'll see. If I fail or get booted, we've been there before. Not the end of the world, nor does this account necessarily have to cease, though rousing Google's ire and living to tell about it is no small feat. But this is the thing: I've exhausted most of what can be asserted about broken bodies and aesthetics. The rest is nuance. Nothing wrong with that, but after 8 years, and behaving like a mini-Idi, perhaps I can take another tack.

For the record, I hate those whom I've felt betrayed by, and when I told Von Schmetterling's caretaker that I'd take him out, during Indian Summer, I was fairly dispassionate. I know all that such an action would achieve is exactly what the building manager desires, my incarceration, as in not her problem any longer, but unipolar activists need to learn that they hurt others unfairly, and Erik's battle with the government nearly took my life, just as Linda Dezenski's mind games with me online did 17 years ago, which is what makes Turkey Day an uneasy time of year: major depressive episode here, a deceased mother there, an intra building renovation that killed its tenants, but hey, what's not to forgive, yah? Oh, yes, Sean Malone had me clapping, in vigorous is he fucking married fashion (I will not write fucking at Niume, maybe they will let me type coitus or what) and he had me clapping just until his conclusion, which asserts expected courtesies, but let me chew on it.⧬

Inveterate Malice

If I was as ruthless as Peter Thiel, I'd give blogger up. I cannot restart my adsense account because I don't know how to reopen it and don't know either how to utilize Google Forums to get where I need to be, don't see many bloggers who are self funding in these particular domains, I wield my tongue like a volcanic lash, and defied terms of service guidelines to be illegal, and did not tone it down because of a law firm threat, but because I probably am not going to see sunrise at 60. Yet I'm here every day, starving, trying to keep father's resources at bay, but the way to do that is to cease talking to the Aunt. She forces the drifting family patriarch who made me his executor to assist me; it isn't right. Padre has a right to some peace. I found my way back to Beacon through the Levy's Writer's Block none of us use, going to try Beacon again, but I am far too tired to post, even as I realize, to my amazement, that I am giving the building manager the solution she seeks. Fear for my survival is not enough to keep me here in Riverside Presbyterian. There is no respect for the authority of Trudy Richardson, and I treat her in inveterate fashion, living here with so many episodic crises, I need to at least make the attempt to leave, even if social media isn't fully attuned to my subtext.

It may surprise you to learn I am civil to a few of the younger minorities, like Amneshia, a collegiate age guard. She said to me "I would do it (give your notice)," as I've been unhappy a very long time; from what she knows of my story, even she feels corporate should give me the damn transfer. My readers who have read enough to know the gist could telephone Spring Mills and say give the poor spastic what she needs. What is a telephone call?

610-834-1001

I go over Richardson's head now, taunting the dezins of the domestic in Montgomery County, my rancor very much equal opportunity. I hissed into a Vice-President's voicemail fearlessly, threatening institutional duress. For one of such slender means I really buy into my role as the mafia don with cojones on the cunt. I just wrote cunt and made myself an imagined hermaphrodite, which is why Google corporate washes its hands, in part.

I am really angry at Petter Thiel, for the thing itself, but also have much thinking to do. Have a good morning. I have to pack in a bit early.

Females Nag Too Much

In the time honored vexation of crossing wires on social media, I attempted to speak softly to a mulatto whom I don't like, and he is now following my feed. I do not feel comfortable blocking a half wit who says he served as a Marine, but this is now the burden of conscience I get for making an attempt to tell him not to get too involved in online conversation, and conclude from this we've already drastically altered ourselves for the worse. I know what the man wants. To help me heal, help me soften my stance, but his oozing great guy flatulence holds absolutely no interest, just as my overwrought nerves about censorship go a bridge too far. Google is a company. Facebook is a company, and the litany of digital incorporation is not beholden to the First amendment, just as the right to incite is problematical, even if it is qualified by virtual lifelong punishment. Put it in a book instead of a blog, but even there, texts succeed or fail based on formula, market audience, the like.

I do not quite consider myself on par with the grotesque indulgence of Ducasse, but more importantly, I should not have to care as a creative writer, and Google's engineers and employees, not wanting to be arbiters of the First Amendment, should not have to be, even if they aren't sure about the stance of my anarchy. True pathology may be another matter. Have I hit that tenor on occasion? In my published work, every so often, yes. Editors have taken chances on me, but the instant post, this has done bad things to all of us. Obscene photos traded like gawker baseball cards-- and I don't even do that, though I caught my thigh in the phone frame snapping Vinnie and all the sudden had a graphic image designation, and I should have kept that shot, as Vinnie went off mewing in pain and terror in a plastic containment box at the mercy of a city employee named Elena who hated me for dragging her out here at five in the morning. I have to live with that too, and loved the child.

Publishing to Amazon kindle because I desperately need revenue is neither here nor there, ethically, except for the fact I'm using a retailer as a vanity publisher, which waffles me a little, as rejections matter, and being a disadvantaged minority beholden to an overpriced digital global distributor sets my teeth on edge. No one bothers with DEA, so why would vanity productions alter that in any significant fashion, though one grants the format differs? I have decided to try, dip a toe in, and see, but it is not the category of writer I am, and don't want to jip an audience. They deserve my best.

Fear in the Digital Age

I wanted to discuss Google's power, without overreacting, because I remain uncertain why they are moving my domain from WHOIS. I am intelligent, but don't quite grasp why Blogger's upgrade means I'm being exported; it is either procedural, or some sort of majority flagging is going on. I don't understand the email and never succeeded in getting anything made clear in their forums, and have a week to try to get a live representative to explain things to me. Perhaps it just isn't worth the head winds. Maybe getting familiar on Yabberz had something to do with it, but I cannot know that, even if I ask. It wouldn't achieve anything, but the time and energy I've spent putting my soul into this account is all I have, whether it appalls viewers or ignites pity, or occasional appreciation, this is it, and forcing me to make it a personal account no one sees except by request is pointless, regardless of who has been embarrassed.

(Apparently nothing untoward happened, but I still don't get it, as my twitter account is still secured on a WHOIS platform.) It also isn't fair that Google may be earning money on my posts but cannot make re-mometization simpler for me as a disadvantaged woman over 50, even if you might say I have other platform choices.)

I am going to die soon. My body can't take the stress, regardless of corporate unease, and leaving this human stain is necessary, even if I understand the monopolistic gravitation toward moderation which my mettle won't obey, since mortality overtaking us creates urgency. I've become blunter, without going so far as to try to draw Trump's supporters to my advantage. If I cannot get justice for the cruelty of my life, I intend to go down fighting. One year, Marie said, "you belong in the street!" Because I don't let up. 23 year old university students shouldn't be trapped in section 202 housing for life simply due to the fact that they are power chair users who never guite solved the commute issue. I hate Presbyterian Homes, and by extension, the whole 202 system. When Denny O'Brien advocates the virtue of yoga classes, how the holy fuck am I supposed to enter into that? To make a grievance threadbare, Liberty Resources and Linda Dezenski were my segregated family, as was the dying gargoyle on the eighth floor.

My mother, ten years ago, maybe more, asked why I couldn't just live my life. There is nothing left of it to live.

Acquisition Pressure Points

How did we get here? If you’re a progressive, you start by expressing solidarity with a supposed underdog. [sic]

Google is making changes. Google is upgrading and expects me to understand these things, while my worries flue out of my chest like razor thin party streamers, fully cognizant I'll be gone soon, that Google is transitioning slowly into a value brand, paranoia like a vise on my stressed vascular system, Google wins, and my disenfranchisement is like Connelly's self-serving demise at the hands of demonic demands for nurture in American remakes. I grant that I intermingle personal voice, personal rage, yes, with an agenda many viewers may find inscrutable, uncomfortable, but the fact that I'm near the end of my viability should merit charitable latitude, even if my life long anger at being tortured for the sake of everyone else has merged into Trump's bully pulpit. 

Why not telephone Google and sort it out in flushed retention? I have tried once or twice, and need to make an effort with the time differential, and already know, since all platforms are the same when it comes to incendiary fire, I am not going to be allowed more creative freedom elsewhere to stay public with an adult content banner. The Russians and the Chinese probably already point out that the west practices corporate censorship in just such a fashion, through restrictive guidelines, if that is indeed what the search giant is up to. I'm not certain, but wanted to qualify, I still like ambulatory men, of certain classes and types, and wish I had ambulatory men, of certain classes and types, who could see me as more than a vaginal conquest of exemplary penetration. To the extent that female paraplegics can still be fully desirable, I am not one of them, born like an imp, dying like a hag, but the dogs see me as a lay, and it has never been otherwise, at least not with any man I wanted, including the three blacks I might have tried, ancient history, though two were paraplegics. Maybe that I tweet my links is causing the trouble, but I am not engaging in hardcore pornography, and some of you must realize this, that it is a thematic mission statement, yet what can I do? Alphabet may signify Google has future growth issues, but I'm a poisoned cockroach, legs in a death run upturned in the air.

Belmont Options

As goes Facebook, Blogger just reversed itself on its adult content policy, and I'm snickering in derision, supposing this means I can stoop to my corrosive vulgarity as needed, but that corrosive vulgarity didn't land me any champions willing to ride in and scoop me up: I have been, with a degree of difficulty, explicit about physical denigration to my person, even to the point of destructive stimulating attempts which failed after the aide Miss Eddy (I can't really remember this woman's name, but God must hate me to have put me front and center with such abominating indulgence she engaged in such a furtive fashion) left her suggestive touches lingering and she luckily escaped with her life the next day. I could not reach Unlimited Staffing to prevent her return at the time, and the police owe me a debt for sparing them such a sordid business. I never call the police, which is probably why I've managed to evade Inglis so long, despite Presby's heavy hand, but I do not link to pornographic material. I may embarrass my family, and my cousins may have a bone to pick with me about my imposition on their mother, and I concede my tyranny without argument; I have little praise to offer various individuals but for when admiration overrides contempt-- that said, I'm not entirely gratuitous, and believe even my damaged intellect deserves better. I wish these digital giants would make up their damn minds, however. I'm nothing. Poets & Writers banned me and I never got over it, and so on, but I'd never fight Google. I'm too old now, too weak, and Google is powerful. I am just a crippled ward who never broke free through use of her expertise on the welfare state, and the last thing that ignites me is insurrection, which even reactionaries of like mind disregard because they do not want to take on my maintenance. Case closed.

My options:

1. Stay with Presby and let my years of stigma go. I can't.
2. Make myself homeless and see how long it takes to make the federal contract with pluralism seem like Candyland.
3. Go to Inglis, which is a form of annihilation, pictures of their grounds notwithstanding, I know I cannot endure what I've seen there of rubber tubes and emaciation of impending death.
4. Find a roommate.
5. Euthanasia
6. Make another plan.

What is it exactly that I want?

To stop being intimidated by property owners and return to some form of matriculation while I am able to do so, and get an age appropriate bloke to lean on with more compatibility than I had with Hispanic Frank-- which means no more Hispanics.

The shot of little kimmy I took on the blouse I took exposed a bit of spastic thigh, and a touch of my sash belt. That much skin was inadvertent. I am not a photographer; it's banished. 

Disaffection

"thank you for following me" a direct message 

Mr. Harris may have forgotten that he was following a nasty a bituminous troll, because he sent yours truly a direct message which asserted that he'd "return the favor," when I decided to let his feed on my stream, an indicator that he may have ignored my links. My synaptic connections aren't what they used to be either; I too struggle with fine print, but I try to visit my twitter page and trim the branches.

I may stop linking my DIA posts so often, however, if the moral majority is going to pressure Blogger to silence me. Where that pressure came from might be nice to know, but I am not going to let it stop me, not that I can fight Google, I know that. This software belongs to the company, and the First Amendment applies to the public square-- but Blogger succeeded in making me angrier, inadvertently, perhaps.

I am, on occasion, chastised by the establishment for lack of relevance, which annoys the holy shit out of me when it comes to social media. I wanted to talk about texts, on Linked In, with those who taught them, but down came the muzzle, "lack of relevance," without me breathing a word about my personal situation. I could not fight back, Linked In couldn't tell me anything, and yet I had to be mortified.

This isn't virtual stigma following real life prejudice? We do not have to thank followers in thousands of automated emails. Think about it. I'll leave my account. I like Medium, and think it's better for us than thousands of writer authors tweeting what we won't read. I like BeaconReader too, and for that I need twitter. 

I'm mean, hurtful, and occasionally vile, but I am also challenging and divergent, and you really need to stop and think about the price people like me are asked to pay. I am in exactly the same room I was when I was punted off Poets & Writers. How many of those authors have moved on, been able to change? I am in exactly the same studio where Linda squealed to me like a pig about her orgasms, and she may have left the disability center, but I am sure the bitch has her mortgage paid off. I know she, and Josie Byzek, whom I've also offered choice words, have online access. Jimmi Shrode, who is afraid of me, may too. Jimmi is afraid of me, instinctively, and he should be, but he can walk, and has what he wants, at least until Erik dies. I'm alone; I'm in pain, and I live in an environment I never wanted to be, and all you fine players can't handle it.

Exchanging Pennsylvania for New Jersey isn't what I had in mind

"There is no use talking about some things They're better left unsaid."-- Dennis Quaid

I am still sulking. Google, the mother of all monopolistic counter culture enterprises, accusing me in an automated warning of graphic video links. I've never done that, and whoever my regular viewers were, they know it. No, what it all comes down to is lack of manner. Blogger wants me to stop nose-diving despair, because we're lemmings at heart, capable of a mass consequence. I could surf around and find someone who could teach me how to make a blog platform and relocate, but that wouldn't stop corporate censorship, and it's wrong, even if the consequences of virulence lead to bad outcomes, that is a price, because we aren't free if it's freedom with restriction because we have to live with people and entities who do bad things and get away with them, and I've put my heart into this, six years, eventually to be cached into a screen shot. Unless I revise, and revise, cough up something really of hell fire.

I sent out my first resume in years, to a foundation across the border which calls itself *Humanity Preservation*. And pedestrians who have little use for vehemence might say that is what I should be doing, with an affirmative nod of the head, but if you have a son, daughter, grandchild, niece, cousin, with my disabled intelligence, would you want them to go through what Liberty, what Presby have done to me? Is this the system you want? Presby is a syndicate, and a dangerous one at the end of the day, as bad as those corporate models which inspire mistrust. Actual people who knew me once, like Jerry, whom I've no doubt antagonized (something of my outcry must have gotten back to him, because his alma mater contacted me and earned my displeasure) and my executive director Richard knew me later.

Neither of them would be able to handle what Philadelphia's inexorable and inept welfare state has done to me, and society wags "you're a bad girl spastic, no one has the right to say that murder is justified because you've been broken".

Those who aren't afraid to examine the evidence can see we're driving ourselves off the fucking cliff, but never mind. My voice, caustic as a paper cut, is bad for the bottom dollar. We'll see. I'm going to investigate Presby. We'll see if I stay well enough to sizzle the butter.

Mimic

Blogger managed to frighten me, and I am still digesting it, as a prelude to the arc of my life ending exactly as it started, bodily functions constrained, wondering why viewers of my posts necessarily need to feel victorious in censoring a voice soon to fade regardless. Humanity knows it is in trouble, and power has shifted away from territorial governance to corporate control on a global scale, just as David Mitchell presaged it in Cloud Atlas, and just as the main catastrophe in the novel indicated, it won't really change that we're doomed to irrational repetition of conflicting interests, whether vengeance is refined through engineering efficiency or relegated to vulgarity, I am not certain I ever had a choice about my destiny, part failed scholar, part failed systems module, part semi-failed writer who cannot grasp everything, computer science being one topic of unfortunate illiteracy. Even if I desired comprehension, I could not grasp the complex aspects of circuitry and code, but understand the power it generates, and it scared me; I'm used to human censure, but not being wiped off search because I cause offense, or am considered irrelevant, or simply a provocateur.

Decorum would insist that I need not lift the curtains I do to prove a point, but I'm suggesting otherwise. We pay a price for sustaining people like me, especially when the judicial process cannot rectify the trauma which has to be necessarily absorbed. I am ignoring the health systems in place for that rather than seeking adequate treatment because mental health is a game of Russian roulette, and pharmaceuticals don't work. I learned this about intake long ago, just like prison, therapy is a cycle of recidivism by degree, and makes treating professionals themselves vulnerable, which liberal journalists ignore when they talk about crisis in services. There is no getting better for approximately a third of trauma clusters, only volume muting, and Google muted my volume, why?

The inferences? What I've insinuated about hate? Perhaps. I do not hate my ex-fiance in the traditional sense of domestic discord. I hate what he is, how the Bronx molded him, and hate how he lives, and how I live too. For my subjective intent, it isn't worth the price, which is why I engaged in an inappropriate social outreach and gave Tony Stiles my telephone number. His local notoriety doesn't mean anything to me personally except that it gives him a capacity I've lost in being vanquished so I took a chance, not really expecting that he'd oblige me with a reciprocal response as a knight in shining armor. I'm looking at a position for a health journalist, and I am not motivated, indecisive as to whether I should force myself to apply anyway. I'd rather become a dictator and overthrow a representative government, a brief and flaring bookend to my tortured legacy.