tutto in famiglia

Shut the hell up you bitch ass nigga. You will continue to run this country further into the ground and risk lives every time you breathe. You’re not the president. Just a dumpster full of hate. FOH. Sick to my stomach that literal shit currently represents America to the world. https://t.co/qoNWllmZIm

— Jussie Smollett (@JussieSmollett) January 12, 2018

I have not had much to post about my mother's sister Mary in her ebullient mark upon her league of students in the face of her deceased sister's emotive turbulence. This is due to fear of consequence. Her husband, also obese to the point that its malevolence on his family is grotesque, is a Methodist prig, and in other circumstances her might have been to PA's Delaware County what Chris Noth's Peter Florrick is to Cook County in Illinois. If he had not married into Mary's Catholic family, he might have been a local big wig, and the paper's treated him him as such when he was "Chief of D's," to use the Dick Wolf colloquium from SVU in an overt strategism to draw the audience in. 

Unlike yours truly, Mary is a true bovine conservative, and when she gets a few simple ideas in her head she masticates them to the finish line, and if niggers like Trudy Richardson have terrorized me for nearly ten years of her managerial authority, than what better advocacy can the Worrilow family offer me but to move into Fair Acres with my grandmother's living cadaver in Lima? I'd be given a room with another patient where I could "come and go". The wonders of the empty hollow that is the Americans with Disabilities Act from a woman twice my size, twice as thick, replacing herself with titanium bones. I have broken with my aunt, permanently, which points to the anathema, the irony, that poets and writers suspended my account from the Speakeasy for detailing the issues of chronic condition which Gretchen posts about daily on Facebook, but I hate the latter, regret the former. Mary nearly died earlier in 2018, due to pulmonary embolism, and yet everyone is slavering to do me more harm. Trudy's been at it longer, and I am determined she'll pay a price for that. Lumping me in with dementia patients prone to violence is not a conducive environment, nor as safe as my sister might otherwise believe. I may not be able to assist true conservatives in excising LLhan Omar as a fatal virus on our body politic, but Presbyterian Homes is going to feel my bite. Corruption before the face of God might as well open the doors to Armageddon.

Momentum of Validation on a Swell

And the one thing we know the federal government cannot do is locate illegal aliens-- Kyra Sedgwick, not in Georgia anymore

As a matter of technicality, it was meningitis which killed my brother Nicholas, and not the HIV he injected into his bloodstream, but all I know about the disease is that it is prevalent among college age adults because college age adults live in close quarters and sneeze on each other with unguarded nonchalance, and Bre Payton was close enough to this sybaritic out of control age group to make her sudden demise from its attack on her brain-stem comprehensible, if otherwise unfortunate. I had a distant relative of similar age die in an accident at a skateboarding company where he worked. Brian was probably closer to being a millennial than Bre, but the suddenness of youth taken before its time makes me wonder why old age such as mine can malinger into bitterness, and others are snatched in nearly incidental fashion, as in MRSA or virulent cancer eating alive Mexican carpenters and eight year olds while others are merely hamstrung into inhumane predicaments. My novelist friend Gretchen Laskas has had a difficult time since returning from Ireland with her husband. I am unsure what it is Karl Laskas does, but it is high octane, like a client in Alicia Florrick's law firm, higher up than anything in my family short of my father's high rolling real estate deals, and while that affluence is certainly more secure than my vulnerable, withering indigence, it did not shield his wife, Karl's, from nearly unimaginable travail, which struck Gretchen like hobo's hopping the rails in pairs. Her uncle committed suicide while she was still in West Virginia, and then her son was in sudden mortal jeopardy when meningitis through a strep infection attacked her son's brain. Although the samples of Grechen's early novels which I read at the turn of the century were on the maudlin side, somewhat over - dramatized, her Facebook posts illustrate the maturity of a nearly Tolstoyan focus on family dynamic and medical crises: Brennan's brain surgeries, the scars on his skull like Frankenstein, chicken noodle soup day at the San Diego hospital, the purported city of a band musician named David Owen, who trolled me on Twitter

and just as quickly vanished on Twitter, like something out of a mariachi band in Creole culture. I was going to write a post about his charming screenshot fit of my tagline. No particular reason except that I won the shouting match. All of you, (as in Krugman, Douthat, Kathleen Parker) feel guilty about my existence. Gretchen doesn't. She was merely considerate enough to ask how I was the day I did not do my grandmother's birthday celebration in the rain, not doing as well as I should, despairing in chest pains from lack of proper ability to defecate of ever having true personal autonomy again, keeping my chin just above water in static pain in my godfather's ill begotten Quantum, and no, the fact that Bre and Brennan and Brian and my long spiritual underworld shyster brother of a vanished gen Y milieu exude reversal by epidemic and folly, these instances of decease are too variable, as yet, to point to apocalyptic wariness, what they do illustrate, beneath the seams, like the sordid exceptions in certain NFL clubs, is modern medicine progress is being stonewalled, in the breach, by evolution's powerful insistence, and its ineptitude, as well, in being able to adapt the independence of those such as I, whom it once trained into defiant ability. Kyra Sedgwick's perspective about honest coming of age dysfunction is a truism, after a fashion, even if what seasons The Closer as your standard ham and cheese is somewhat mystifying.

Meuse-Argonne Offensive in Smallville's Evenly Distributed Portions

It's easy to mock Coulter, who wrote a book titled In Trump We Trust, for ever thinking she could trust Trump (and I will probably go on doing so), but at least something mattered to her. --Charles J Sykes, defuncted

Raspy breathing, still not readily able to marinate and work on my other projects for a simple reason: I need my furnishings in this malevolent studio apartment rearranged, and one of my cousins first volunteered and then reneged on assisting Gallahad with that. It took me awhile to realize my pet paraprofessional, like the dead mothers whose skins we use as camouflage, has bipolar disorder, and this has further diminished his standing. I try to forget what happened last spring, not that I don't comprehend that volatility and understood it even back then, but this is a highlight to what I mean when I simply pole volt over the barriers and convey that bipedal people want spastics like me dead. Gretchen Laskas, my novelist friend, whose son is battling meningitis in his brain, has asked for help in her new San Diego location, and she and husband Karl receive it. My family, on the other hand, won't lift a finger. Do you see? Welfare cannot do everything for me, nor do I truly expect my followers to form a creche for my benefit, but I've been asking for assistance since October of 2017, and I was forced to reach back out to Liberty Resources, the same center that reported me to the FBI, and only I really understand the stark lunacy in that: Jimmi Shrode is afraid I will actually try to hurt him, the fat fucking 50 year old toddler homosexual jackass.
The histrionic undercurrents in the female. Regardless of ideology, this is one reliable indicator of the difference between men and women, the hyper nerves involved. Ann Coulter, Candace Owens, the ferocity of the cat fight makes Arnold Schwarzenegger look like the reincarnation of Emperor Joseph. Candace interests me, in the way that perplex anomalies always do. I do not have to accuse myself of hypocrisy if I reconsider and follow her again. She did help me garnish 34 likes during the Kavanaugh  confirmation hearing, 34, but I am not that self-abnegating. There are racists who, as I almost did last spring, develop a hate-fascination with the indigenous whom they eschew, and I sincerely prefer not to navigate my old age in this direction. It is the major issue I found in the CW summer series Burden of Truth. Kristin Kreuk opens the pilot with a deft and polished brass as a corporate player. Don't turn. I begged the writers not to give her painful revelations that made her soften into a crusader for a group of toxin exposed high school girls, but of course, she does turn, shepherding along a Canadian Indian lesbian half sister, no less, still casting an oblong glance at the half-breeds borne out of tortured squaws from westerns over a half century old. These are the way things flow away from me under JEVS and its victorious paradigm, but my mind can also reclaim and capture: The Resident differentiates itself ever so slightly as a medical model drama by illustrating that free market wealth is necessary. The SGA makes a turn in this series too, but not so drastically that viewers cannot see why we'd all like to be nouveau riche. I bookmarked a platform to highlight my published articles, and I will have to find it once again through connecting the odd dots of incongruity. Digital doesn't always mean easier.

Galley Tear Sheets

"Marriage does not complete you."-- my former glaucoma blind neighbor

 I had the poor bastard on his knees trying to console my inconsolable stream of tears for a domestic life I’ll never have.  (Though this more nuanced Molina love portrait will remain only a synopsis via second hand.) I did not intend to do that and did not turn and play aggressor in the process of his knee on my behalf, with a shrug, as I by mere happenstance remember this post, without enough context in it to recall the necessity of citing Alberto Moravia. Poor Shawn is out of his depth, and out of curiosity I said he could read my posts. And as you can read, he commented with a vernacular appreciation, and I do not care what he says, Joanne you’re not dead! Nor do I care what the crones of Visiting Nurses say about bringing me back. Frank was a living embodiment of what former neighbor Tom advised me in my mid-twenties. Frank was a lack of completion, more than that, an alienation. Shawn is not a completion either but for reasons unknown to me, our simulated intimacy whispers in my ear: this is what it means to be held, this is comfort in another’s strength, and he has to give me time to have my little whirlwind. I have had larger whirlwinds, even derived satisfaction from utilizing pity to manipulate men of more piercing temperament than he, but now I only feel chagrin at my power to bring a softer Hulk to marriage proposal position within the blink of an eye, a boy man who thinks my acquired culinary tastes are akin to sinking in quicksand, and makes me laugh, exclaiming, “I cannot eat this,” despite the fact that I thought seaweed snacks were a popular vogue. My past and present make rather strange bookends: Brandon was one Negro stereotype out of The Birth of A Nation, the aggressor whose lewd violence threatened white purity, and my life itself, and now I am distressing my caretaker of sweeter cocoa hue because I never made a good marriage. Without actually being able to petulantly stomp my foot and fracture solid concrete, my grief nevertheless stands in as a recipe substitution doing exactly that. Don’t I think other people suffer? Sure I do. Stephen Hawking bore his 24 hour maintenance with gentility, and Megan Crowley deserves President Trump’s attention, though I believe her father’s zealous determination to be misguided, which immediately places our relation to each other, corresponding points of impairments, in opposition with my arguments, but I’ll never have Gretchen’s pleasure, probable joy, in the sanctity of her union with Karl. I never wanted children, but the way Gretchen brings her little girl to life has its charm, and I will enjoy one day meeting her daughter, though my budget is momentarily too strained to return to the Virginias—but my point is, I begin to see why wives of such caliber celebrate family, and fear the lash upon lash which has fed a fury such as mine, defying online rules of engagement. I see what it is. When you lose the ability to utilize your toilet on demand because of a predatory mechanic you desperately begged for help, then get back to me, in my past sterile godsend that was September 2017.

Permanent Lacunae

This is one of Trump's most underappreciated political achievements of the year: consolidation of power over a party to which he had scant personal or institutional ties. -- Matthew Yglesias, Vox

The reason I do not remember Titus Welliver as the "man in black" on Lost is because the dowager allowed her following of the show to lapse in the second season, which can be taken as a veiled critique of a complex mystery which made too many demands on its viewers, not that I am denying the show was a radical innovation; thinking about it over the last couple days, I was surprised by how much I had forgotten about it, the real time back stories and their tie ins to the unexplained occurrences. Excluding my ignorance over how good or bad Abrams work was on the lost youth of Star Trek. I ten to believe JJ cannibalized his own capital due to overreach. His writers deployed some of Lost's tactics in Revolution, and it felt anemic, and Once Upon A Time downgraded itself to a fourth grade series of correspondences. I've posted before that Lost's escapism from the impairments of biological reality was a coping mechanism pertinent, if not entirely beneficial, to the diseased and the lame, however quaint or charming you'd like to make it, while Jennifer Rubin claims Trump is destroying democracy and my friend Nick wonders, almost simultaneously, if Trump is killing the libertarian movement. Personally, I think Zuckerberg has destroyed history, freedom of thought, and that this lands on Facebook's desk, so Mark should be jailed, tried for crimes against humanity, and his dwindling assets, 30 billion in losses at last count, should be distributed to poor stricken scholars on the comparative basis of measuring IQ against limited resources.

Years ago, I promised you I would put a Lost reviewing on my to-do list, and I apologize that it has only made it to a watch list which might as well be the fountain of youth. It isn't simply a matter of paying Prime for what I once got for free. I balk at going back into the puzzle, because I know there were threads left unanswered, and tend to believe Abrams success is a reflection of a post traumatic terrorism flux  from which we cannot break free. I also told you, years ago, that I started a novel in 1989 strikingly similar to the idea of Lost, real world characters vanishing to an island plagued by never ending insurgency. I shortened the title to Don Paydola, a bit wonky. Gretchen Laskas read part of it and claimed I was a writer's writer, the parts of it I actually typed to hard drive still temporarily locked into an office 7 .wps extension. I overreached with the ambition of that concept too. We'll see if I ever finish it, and stop worrying about my resentment that a Jewish television producer got quixotic. I really don't understand why we exaggerate the forces at play. Everyone drops an egg because Facebook harnesses a sixth of the global population, while on an individual basis, none of us take it that seriously. Trump is a vulgar carnival barker, but he tapped into the little guy. The left thinks this is a suicide pact, and the right is rife with factionalism, but we'll live. John Bolton is a known element. 

Funeral For A Friend

"We need to tell them she's human too." -- a sales vendor named Jeff who has no idea

While Sean Hannity broadcasts CPAC 18 live, and I only make note of the physiological inability to drum up the enthusiasm for what the speeches and mini-bar raids signify in relation to the state of conservatism in America today, always vocal enough, whatever its failures, to look askance at social media purges, Karina breezed back into my life because the Muslim who will soon be redeployed back to her own kind, suggested, “Call her back,” and with great reluctance, I did. Thus I was treated to Rover the dog, flash drives of her men, because I allowed myself to be persuaded. It would have been more optimal had I remained firm when I told her on Facebook to let me go. The mother died from her melanoma yesterday, and Miss Kraus had the presence of mind to text me the information in a simple sentence, a sentence which might have been a rebuff, as pertains my own growing weakness, or simply the need to connect. I am domicile to the region, so is the mother, a woman I spoke to once, chaffing against the burden of this circumstance. Gretchen Laskas posted about the passing of her best friend’s father during this mild oscillation into my daily living, and I am not going to recant it specifically; it is her world, experience that belongs to what made her, and I couldn’t enter into it even if I consider her a friend, which I do, but she hit on what I had once and took away from myself by returning to the city, the conspiratorial intimacy with someone you’ve bonded to. Linda and I had it for a little while, and it is how she defended herself when she threw me off guard preening about spastic climaxes: she meant it as a conspirator, as if my love life was commensurate with her marital intimacy. (It wasn’t, and for the record, I doubt my convulsions make my orgasms more pleasurable than those of more mobile women.) It may seem inconsiderate to raise an objection to my former cleaning woman’s loss, but Karina cannot fill the void she thinks she can for me, just as I could only be a temporary economic support, little more. I can’t comfort her as if we’d known each other all our lives.

I can, despite this machine, wash my own hair, but I’d never hear the end of it from the Muslim, and have to consider this something of a write off herein, the corrosion of all this dependence is like the autonomic shock conclusion in Carnival of Souls.

 Though it is a different genre, this movie mourns humanism to nearly the same degree Amazon does with Electric Dreams. It takes us awhile to realize we’ve bought it, still trying to swim  while we sink.

Hoya Lift Suspension

"Even though we ain't got money," -- a lyric from my era

New Zealand is a strange idyll, for my two cents, although character tests aren't that far removed from meeting the  financial requirements for condominium ownership; the island's exotic sensibility manifests readily in the disappointing genesis story Z for Zachariah. I see what Seitz sees and raise no objection. The pristine cleanliness of both characters and scenery was less troubling than the consequences of Margot Robbie's choice leading to dramatic abruptness. The conclusion lands with an unsatisfactory thud, though private property is still a relevant concern. It is the girl's house, her chapel, her boredom in such a pastoral landscape, while I've been growling like a rabid animal in leg irons since Gretchen and Robert and I were first introduced in Speakeasy. The nurse, whom I shall not identify, said the wrong thing, and I threw a tantrum, with only the child-like Muslim urging me to stay strong; to my mindset, this means telling these socialist bitches to get the fuck out of my life. I can, and I may, if my death dance with Mike leads to a modification I can live with for a year. Yes. A year, which certain segments of the wheelchair community comprehend, a year for a chair I did not pursue strongly enough in 2014, though it may have been 2016, as I did not have issues with the Jazzy until a year after the P-200 expired, and the payment being exacted now is too much. No good choices, only bad to worse, with all those around me drowning in debt, urging me to go join the parade tomorrow, but like Jerry of long ago lecturing on his own triggers, if I was overwhelmed by the only super faggot I over obsessed (not the only semi-exiled fan), how much more so for a Super Bowl parade of an estimated two million. I'm only a casual observer, subsumed by a welfare state which is now punishing me.

Inimical Roman Numerals

"let's get you cleaned up"-- Geena Davis

On the controversial Clements and Ertz touchdowns (come again with runner versus receiver?), the dowager would engage with habitual cynicism and assert that the play calls were made as they were to mitigate any potential chaos in Philadelphia had these end zone penetrations been overturned; with all due deference to Al Michaels, who knows the rules better than I do my pubic hair, they looked like touchdowns to me. History may laud Pederson’s 4^th down special for the next fifty years, but I concur with the voice of urban brawn that Graham pivoted momentum in the Eagles’ favor. I missed some fairly good chess this season, to my regret, but as I posted to fellow Speakeasian, Gretchen Laskas, the intrepid, Superbowl 52 was a great game; never saw the Eagles play that fine before, not that I don’t reminisce the rough edges under Ron Jaworski, but foe once we had a real battle of wills, and Philly broke the seams of Belichick’s juggernaut. As to Brady, he may have a year or two left, but he is engaging in self-deception. Graham proved it. Brady had a cognitive realization delay on that fumble; it would not have been there five years ago, or even three. Having paid attention, however, I did not see the Patriots as invincible. Men can wave all the statistics they wish, New England is just another franchise. Brandin Cooks comical loss of orientation is ample evidence enough for jock itch folly, an ever omnipresent force.

Not to elaborate further on my own physical punishment (I knew it would be excruciating, but knowing doesn’t make living it easier), I am getting a medical equipment evaluation this morning, and as such, shall not punish myself for the sake of work beyond the next 20 minutes). You may cross your fingers, but the horrible toll this has taken on your bituminous host  can no longer lead to recovery of prior rebounds. I am convinced I am om the verge of heart failure, stroke. Hats off Mike, you prevented a future feeding tube insert. If anyone wants to sic the President onto CNN’s deceptive lede in, this time the umbrage is earned.

Shadow Emissions From Brown Dwarfs

[In spite of his refined sensibility Hyacinth Robinson, the little Soho bookbinder, is condemned, as the Princess puts it, “to look at the good things of life only through the glass of the pastry-cook’s window.”]

I did not know that Oprah was also a sexual abuse victim who miscarried the fruits of the violence against her, and it certainly explains what lurks beneath her vivacious veneer, how she transmutes white suffering with the agrarian cracks in black culture; it nevertheless doesn’t remove the irritants of her telegenic superficiality, and the dowager believes this is what Karina doesn’t understand about umbrage against false friends. I think I had enough of that with my former heroine supervisor, Linda Dezenski, who “didn’t understand what I wanted,” when she let me crash land into a near self-inflicted violence. Discussing ideation is one thing, but the turmoil my former colleagues at Liberty left me in is another, and I could have never truly gotten past what happened to me without leaving River Presbyterian Apartments, and since I haven’t managed that, and keep getting punched in the face, I needed to cast off my former Craigslist hire. Karina saw the reality of my situation. Due to this, with a trace of guilt, I overcompensated her, but had a different set of expectations than consoling phone calls, particularly when I was in trouble in October. I had hoped the peripatetic passer would have stepped up to mitigate the stress of my equipment failure. The cues I read in her voice said no way, so I essentially tossed courtesy out the window, and unfriended her. I don’t necessarily dislike flighty blonds with wobbly centers, but this shallowness is the venial American sin. I would not have these same expectations from a women’s interest author like Gretchen Laskas, though she has been in my department with some of her early writings, because mutual physical support is not the foundation of our relationship. Karina, however, accepted how I defined her, rapidly suggested and then retracted a co-habitation, which, if she had more mettle behind her declarations, would have spared me the equestrian braying cruelty of an asshole like “Tom,” Presby’s contracted Holocaust squad leader. I fault conservatives here too, harder as I am on the left, especially Kaisch with his Downs Syndrome anti-abortion bill. Conservatives fight for our lives, but the majority of us wind up as slaves, constricted chattel, unless we have the peculiar genius of Hawking. It may appear that chronic conditions are harder on the precocious, but making that assumption is laurel resting. The mentally retarded know, particularly when entering into adulthood, that the world perceives the threat they pose. Robert Redford tries to cut through this superficiality within his maturity, almost with the force of preponderance in Majorie Prime. Whatever the flaws in its gravity, the revelation of emotional wounds, this futurist dramatic poem is a devastating condemnation of method acting. To that end it’s rather finely tuned, and probably an affectation in the wake of Paul Newman’s terminal cancer. The middlebrow would say Redford is wise, not engaging in a roman a clef, hiding his intent in subtext, but I have an agenda, going to be gone soon, and take my sacrifices. It could be that James Woods, trailing behind Redford some years, doesn’t have the capacity to read my responses, as his followers have steadily increased. In my case, I know I haven’t taken drops simply due to vulgarity, but I do wince, when my fondness leads me to positive attributes, like a solitaire guru, and I face the risk of more abandon if they become aware, but we all know the price of eggs, how difficult broken yolks are to clean away.

Setting Your Watch By The Bowels of Philip Seymour Hoffman

Are you okay?-- the indulgent lack of specificity in modern ecumenicalism

Search prevents the least among us from being the dunce in our virtual public spaces, and as such, after Meloni left SVU, whatever his brash liberalism amounts to in social media, the overly long running spin off seemed to become a hollow allegory of itself. Followed so intermittently, Noah’s appearance was a disconcerting element, even if it was designed to give Mariska Hargitay a counterbalance; it is not that outlandish that a daughter of an alcoholic rape victim adopts the son of a pimp, but the series no longer works. It has a hollow knell to it with so much of its core ensemble now absent from the set, and the writers seem to acknowledge this with the season opener. Olivia Benson is slipping once again, but unless there were hints from last season that the equally over stressed dowager missed, the child abuse allegation is just this short of ludicrous, straining credulity, like Gary Webb's suicide after his CIA story collapsed under scrutiny. She became distracted, the child ran into the street, and the inexorable grind of the state against the individual begins again, as with OJ, or the Angleton murder and gambling scene in Houston’s upper crust.

While under no circumstances is the brutal killing of Mrs. Angleton anything worth condoning, her surviving spouse kept beating the system, and no government allows that, none, whether by purportedly unbiased legal processes or not. We’re all at the mercy of mass tolerance, whether Zuckerberg’s or Jack’s, not that either of these uber liberals are involved in day to day postings. I’m rapidly wearying, even if I understand why my long term writing associates utilize Facebook as they do, just as I keep blogging with dismal skepticism, in varying shade overs to cynicism. I have overkilled with tweets, so I am not one to judge the frequency with which my few Facebook connections describe too much too often, but if Gretchen had posted about her medical travail with fibromyalgia ten years ago, or five, I might have taken heart, and persevered. I replied to her weariness with her pain in more detail than some of her relatives, and my muted positives on her behalf were genuine. She married well, to all appearances has produced happy children with a loving husband, but I am about ready to roll out the door of Riverside Presbyterian, despite the tally of what justice, in its pithy abstraction, owes me, despite the condition of my power chair, despite the chasm that will open before me, I am probably going to run, abandoning very nearly everything, even my contributor copies reorganized in the nexus of Karina’s well meaning disruption to my order. Then I’ll be off the radar, soiling myself in the next county. Presbyterian Homes is doing everything in its power to force my compliance with Philadelphia’s welfare system, or set me up for a forced intake to a wheelchair community like Inglis House, and I am not going to allow it. It is that simple.

Unlike Webb, my professional reputation wasn’t destroyed through the pressure of overreach, just bad luck, and my willingness to be scathing, ruining the rudiments of my small crescent of bylines. I can’t take the bullshit that goes on in public housing anymore, and if I cannot take the ignorant vindictiveness of urban poverty with its relentless cruelty destroying my spirit, how much less the relentless human offal of a home for cripples, merciless, huge, the stench of disease permeating its halls. Regardless of my sympathies for a fiery, hard Roman Catholic faith, there is absolutely no dignity in this existence of such vulnerability, and I’ll need a week or so, but I either leave, or fight my way into a convulsive conflict with African Americans and hypocritical white Protestants whom I literally despise with their horrified proprieties. They are the ones abusing me, constantly breaking me down, and it’s just more of the same. If Olivia Benson was an actuality, there is very little probability that she could have aged so well adjusted into her leadership role. Eighteen years is it? Her life of being assaulted and abducted, while more dramatic than my mostly sordid degradation at the hands of violence, would have never left her so well adjusted to take over from her captain, however well intimated these slight hints are at her newly acquired destructive armor, after a fashion. Yeah, it is serial fiction, akin to a comic book, and audience loyalty needs lines of resilient moral constancy, but if I am to recover anything of the woman I once was, described as full of life, I have got to get the fuck out of here, with virtually nothing, even my published work locked away. Nothing more than the blood curdling my veins says I either leave or die, regardless of how Wolf has an actress so solidly typecast put in her papers.

The Edelweiss Pathos in ZapIt's Webmaster Error

The verbal disease above noticed may be reserved for diagnosis by and by. --TS Eliot, The Perfect Critic

You are going to have to bear with me on this one. I rely on the WPHIL syndication system more for quality than any other free broadcast access I have, and I was going to digress in frustration that all Amazon Prime and Netflix amount to are content distribution systems, making us all jackasses at the end of the day, though I'll stay with Prime as long as I can. We'll save this for later, however. A minor internalized hilarity occurred because WPHIL17 listed the wrong 21st century film with the same tile: ZapIt had on the grid the Concussion 2015, about the NFL's grand medical conspiracy. What WPHIL actually aired was the 2013 Concussion, and what is the 2013 Concussion? The 2013 Concussion is bored lesbian housewife, after taking a hit by her kid, seeking out prostitutes for sex, and then lets herself get pimped. You would figure I'd have a field day with this, and you'd be entirely correct, except for the fact that Stacie Passon is a courageous director, and this film is representative, outside of its subject, with what I am starved for: a story for mature adults, with mature themes, which ends on a curious Lionel Shriver note. Everyone stays in their places. No police, no Candice Bergin grand scandal. It has a very chromatic libertarian undercurrent. And as I critic, I liked it, but Passon in her dual role as screenwriter and den mother with unsparing eye, ultimately proves my point about the blinding insulation of gratuitous pleasure. I'd ask Sara Posada, while visualizing her astonishment, if it is really like that for women these days, all these wild catting moments and flings and actually rather tepid sexual secrets, and if it is, I am out gunned, mocked by you all, and weep in profuse preferential self-pity. Sniff. The obese teenager who is Weigert's first client is my heroine, personally, for realizing in herself that heterosexual pair bonding is the better part of valor. I was ready to break out the pom poms when she ended this business arrangement, I kid you not.

But let me take a swing at a tricky knuckle ball: if Gretchen Laskas can forgive the dowager for once ballistic outrage, why can't that same forgiveness be granted to a dung mother like Josie Byzek? Let me put that issue in these hypothetical terms: certain lines crossed are flag indicators, and I never ridiculed my more able writer friends personal relationships. Josie broke code. I don't care what he posted that offended her, I could talk to Cecil, he could keep up with me, and she took that away, and doesn't have the armor available to shield herself if I so much as ever set eyes on her again. Cyber relationships, on the percentages, are mostly ephemeral. More than likely I could never have coaxed Morales to dinner, but every time I consider the cost of my isolation, I send a secret prayer out that someone slaps this rancid Lancaster excuse for a Christian across her face, like she deserves. He was the last effort for the vigor I had that might have offered me a reasonable chance. I won't find it on a site like Our Time. You know that; I am too pared to the bone.


Sara, by the way, astonished me first by following me. I would not have asked, and it does provide me comfort, but I cannot treat her like a confidante. This is primarily due to age, and I have taken a care toward reserve. I like her very much though, and demand you all behave. She is possibly a happy future I shall not fully see.

Residuals

If I did not stop doing this I was going to die.--Cheryl Strayed

On the whole, I was predisposed towards prejudicial distain of Salvation, simply by virtue of dealing with fifty years of the asteroid meme in the industry, and I could have made myself sleep, as CBS re-aired the pilot Friday evening. It had a few libertarian brush strokes, but the fact that Dell flat screen computer monitors and Apple phones have become supporting players in television science fiction doesn't translate well, as far as I am concerned, which is why I might have paid more attention to The Mindy Project; its twitter account followed me a long time ago. I haven't written about it because I am ambivalent about the humor in The Office, but at least these situation comedy offshoots from British models still focus on character. In an alternate world where I had mobility on my feet, as you do, I might have been Mindy as heroine, playfully acerbic as opposed to caustic, in the varying degrees of hostility humans have, mocking their own behavior.

I need to be cautious in reconciling with the maternal voice of my sex. Children need to be reared, but in the developed world, we've lost perspective on the matter. Reconciling with Gretchen, and getting too familiar with Robert's liberalism, reminds me why I've gotten banned from the collective social voice, and I cannot wade back in like a holistic penitent. It isn't that I want to hurt them, or be disparaging. I know Robert hopes I find my way to peace, acceptance, some sort of happy extraction, and Gretchen probably forgave me because she knew she wasn't the target of my antagonism, but sometimes, the second sex, with its pasteurized, urbane husbands, is insufferable, and my Speakeasy past, not wholly absent in social media, recollects my unease with clacking hens. I've kept Cheryl Strayed on twitter, but the memory of her authorial voice about her journey into horse and needle tracks had a vaporous quality to it, a sort of conspiratorial nod that her lack of control with narcotics wasn't serious. I forget why she and I connected nearly twenty years ago, and as I've written before, that she ignored my greeting on twitter doesn't rankle that badly. It might be simply that she doesn't remember we used to post to each other. We would not have become, or remained friends, however. There is another whom I haven't mentioned. Diane Kirsten Martin, Robert's workshop colleague. She and I sparred over my bias toward Africans on Facebook. I did not get banned for being civilly frank, thought I might, frankly didn't care, and we've ignored each other since, but this still reflects the lassitude of Robert's nature. Diane is catty, I'm the brass bitch, and Cheryl, his wife, smiles mischievously. None of this is my world, this San Francisco Episcopalian middle brow curvature, and it never shall be. But if I reject it, then what exactly was I aspiring to, defeated as I am by urban progressive corruption? 

The Company We Keep

We were promised The Jetsons, but instead life today still looks pretty much like it did in The Jeffersons.-- Paul Wiecek

First, let me get this off my breast bone. Fuck Canada, the permanently wealthy liberal opposition, just to illustrate that the Commonwealth sycophant to the the impostor over in Buckingham Palace playing QE2, (she cannot possibly be that alive and well, just look at President George Herbert Walker Bush), is so different from the United States. They do not utilize fuck in an inverted sentence, but Wiecek did give me a sounding board which I do not intend to submit as a letter to the editor, and this is to his credit. I dropped everything for this bit of holiday writing. My other assignment is complex, and as I am not getting paid, I insist on going slowly; if I do perhaps then I'll wind up with a latter day commission on the same topic. Or maybe I'll fail, again, and that is important only to the extent I'd like to do some policy writing before my mother's sister tricks me into an institutional environment. I do not trust her. She has assisted living on her frontal lobe like a gliona. Her father-in-law could afford to die in assisted living care. I cannot, and they wouldn't accept me. She does not understand the system. I do, and it is not going to happen. This represents why I take my rupture with Linda so hard. She understands family selfishness as the enemy, and I no longer have peers whom I like, at all, except a scattered handful of writers and scholars, and I realized, when I wrote, days ago, that I was fond of Gretchen, I do not think she'll mind her sudden currency, I realize that this is my problem: I despise everyone in 202 housing, and when I knew Josie, there was an element of recoil in me, and I need more instances of this not being the case. This makes Wayne Booth's thesis more telling, even if it's problematic. Post-modernists like Jerry are correct. Morally responsible aesthetics are incredibly difficult, but this doesn't mean Booth didn't give me insight as to reading Jane Austin as a beautiful, conflated, liar. Take a dip in theory now and again. For Booth too is correct that Benchley is superficial-- but this doesn't mean it lacks any value. The Raw Shark Texts, which I assiduously bunted to archive, may be playful, and derivative, which I tend to enjoy, but Hall didn't give me reason to care for his correspondences.

When I really need to be my old vehement self, I will not draw any extra button notices to my posts. The rest is up to Google's power and majority indignation, but don't kid yourself about the damages to my moral compass because I allowed a black girl my age, named Terri Way, to dupe me into moving into this hellhole which robbed me of my life. Not every wheelchair user gets sucked out to dry like this, and Presbyterian Homes shall pay the piper, or I am going to prison.

All That Drama Queen Strum und Drag

If you'd really like some evidence, which you do not, of what the dowager temperament is like when it goes off, sine we're engaged in dissecting developmental aggression, (are we?) the novelist Gretchen Laskas, of whom I am actually quite fond, respect a great deal, and whose rational theism has had no small influence on my thought processes, can tell you I flipped out when P&W banned my account 15 years ago, and I've been guilty as charged ever since, more than ungracious, and have no idea what possessed me to send her a friend request on 6/28, waiting in mild suspense to see if I garnered a block. I did not, and was quite happy to restore at least one other Speakeasy contact, I really was. It softened up my alienation just a smidge. I thought she'd never speak to me again, and this is why I tagged her account to my family's attention. All that melodrama! And here we are, with a peak of middlebrow parameters in the looking glass once again, but as you all know, I am an infrequent Facebook participant. I was also off a bit on what she might look like, and is more attractive than I imagined from our exchanges. I'm as over the top as Training Day😎😎

JJ Abrams, modern Baptist

"You're in so much pain that--" Gretchen Laskas, banning me from the boards with forgotten similes

"I'm sorry you're in so much pain."-- Linda C Dezenski, trigger happy matron

I've yet to see mainstream media outlets link Malaysia Flight 370 to the revolutionary pilot that unfortunately imprinted Abrams on the national psyche. My aggregate may have done it, and I would not put such a move past The Huffington Post, although I will not attempt to verify this supposition, but it feels like an ominous parallel. Ample reason I do not wish to aggregate the mysterious incident, despite having a rationale to do so. Philadelphia has a changing demographic with its Asian influx in recent years, and though much of that influx probably doesn't utilize the Internet due to the language barrier, some have naturalized, speak American. Perhaps I'll change my mind, and callously turn it into science fiction hype, without designating it as newsworthy so as to not have any speculative arguments with Examiner managers I am not absolutely certain exist.

Gretchen, intrepid novelist, abandoned any link we actually had with each other; it was her prerogative-- I've abandoned people, and if certain Philadelphia activists attempted rapprochement violence would be the end result. Not television's glamorous violence, nothing in fact that some viewers wouldn't make fun of, old wheelchair user grabbing a developmentally immature homosexual's balls for a preschool bully battle, but I miss engaging with writers and authors. So stressed with monetary decline, however, aging into a kind of golden zealotry which cannot possibly exist, I am not sure my family understands the depth of my rage. Marie, father's sister, has an inkling, and the fact that she spent 550 on a Raymour & Flanigan deal is making me physically ill. I no longer have the luxury for this kind of outlay, but have an appointment with them Thursday, simply for a bedding replacement. The harder I try, the deeper I'm sinking. Therapy isn't going to help me. I have spent a lifetime parrying with clinical psychologists and triage psychiatrists. My mind is closed to efficacy of counselors. Not that I'm assigning blame, but the counselor with whom I was going to have an affair when Linda was enjoying her flauntlet with me, he suggested I'd implode. That wasn't an entirely useful insinuation, in retrospect. Not that I'm being hard on him; his marriage was failing. We wouldn't have been good lovers.

The Schema: It's not about me.

Mr. Deasy chases after him to deliver a final vulgar sally against the Jews. Ireland has a clean sheet in the matter of persecuting them because, wisely, 'she never let them in.' The New Bloomsday Book, p 10, kindle paperwhite.

The curse of naivete and sensory loss, a jingle of smirks, jibes, I had no idea Leopold was a Europeanized Semitic until Blamires cued me in, and I should have caught this earlier, even if I have difficulty hearing the summaries and questions of young Lance. My neighbor in the 14 above, David, is running his garbage disposal; the odor from his apartment during the renovations that started in 2007 freaked everyone out, everyone. I do not like him, but never complained, because I understood he was trying to do as much as he could for himself, and not attempting to victimize the octogenarian Nego league, but his apartment was so bad that Trudy's pressure may have borne fruit had he not complied, and he is a bad power chair driver, breaking his plumbing line and caving in my ceiling beneath his commode, a product and casualty of the inner city, he begs for change every so often, and this is another aspect of disability culture dirty laundry. In the interplay of progressive dialogue, a historian out of Harvard in the guise of Dr. Gordon-Reed has more to say to me than my neighbor above, solely a product of his environment, and a disruption therein. Do I have a right to judge David against the brutality of my own urban failure? Maybe not, but I should not have to have his lifestyle imposed upon my own standards of conduct.
 
For being drunk this morning, I did pretty well getting in, wailing to the guard I was a monster--"I am on the phone!" I managed, by three in the morning, to feed the children, undress, curse my father's voicemail, post here, rinse out my pants, and then, get into bed even with the shakes, soldier on with Ulysses because I was sick to my stomach, and then finally listened to kimmy's teeth, and got up, living on tea and mint, I may not be dead yet, but I know I am finished, and will never get to live in a spacious art studio, with a patron mindful of my demands and my autonomy both. The living death of Presby will ultimately be victorious, even if I fight like a wildcat, and sue Philadelphia Corporation for the Aging.

Did I really believe I was going to incite rebellion in a bar where I rolled in like the ghost of Bukowski? Still, thanks to Drinker's West. You are an accommodating establishment, and if I was a non competitive incongruity, the able and better made up women were nice, and I was happily multicultural and was cool. Why? Because I was able to make my own choices. Your establishment will be relieved to know I shall not become a regular fly on the tap, cannot afford it, but every now and then, since you have enough space, I'll make an occasional invasion. Rachel, little J-man believer sweetie, sorry if I stuck my foot in it, but I was in serious buzz land by the ball drop. I only saw one older man even remotely sexually exciting, and wonder if this is an evolutionary downgrade strategy, but I had a nice night, thank you.

The historian Annette Gordon Reed , who I mention above in terms of her comparative cast, her appearance on the newshour, is something I'd like to get to when my analytical penetration resumes online functioning. My title is a paraphrase of Gretchen's last rebuff. I was wrong not to accept my slaying by the Speakeasy community, as I have admitted, but by the same token, I cared about my 2002 regulars, and these loss of sustained connections do matter as we age, discarded.

Present

Kenny is one of the nicer rent a cops downstairs in the lobby, and obesity doesn't prevent him from actually doing his job. Like Tim, he is stick thin, and reported the car jacking that I was witness to, and if our backgrounds were just slightly more in sync, I would not mind dating him. Tenants get evicted for things like that here, and because I am naive, I got myself embroiled in something similar years back, with a piece of white trash who makes Frank look like the Bronx Casanova, and many of you may recall how my assessment of my ex-fiance has played out.

Kenny is near a hundred percent illiterate about digital technology and the new world of app-gadget fetish we live in today, but I blew some chatter out of my head about my tonsillitis episode. Nineteen is somewhat late in life for swollen tonsils, and Kenny says, with that inner city transplanted agrarian wisdom that leaves me impatient, "Focus on the present now, not the past."

All writers have is the past. The disabled woman on Sunday cut off, in her battle of wills, from her baby brother, is the same disabled woman Gretchen Laskas refused to respond to when I thought my ability to empathize with her agrarian mindset meant something.  Has talking about our past in Speakeasy actually hurt her in any concrete terms? Did I print her telephone number? Or hurt her earnings?  What I am driving at is when abandonment is merited, or not, and how it reflects reality. I have connected to thousands of people online over the years, but what makes a connection real, or my feelings of lost affinity germane? I miss Gretchen; if anything, I may have increased them if your curiosity is piqued. The best I can say about her novels, given the excerpts my fading memory recalls, is that she has the women's interest meme down, but weakly echoes Eudora Welty, and I have to be in the right frame of mind for Welty as it is.

Right now is as good as any to throw a tantrum about southern writers, but I believe I am well enough for coffee, even with my facial structure akin to over-heated cracked porcelain. It is perhaps accurate to suggest that if I stripped naked with a man as dark as Kenny, I'd have a panic attack; I will probably never be in a position to know.