For every degree of ignorance in the universe, there are a trillion bosons to replace what we eliminate. I aggrandize my animosity towards Trudy Richardson, manager in distress at my non-compliance, and Debra Horne knows when I've roared like the thunder lizard about my duress, this doesn't mean we're going out for ice cream in a bully matron competition. To take all that effort to fight methods that were superseded by law so long ago.
I found a job I actually want, and envision a dead standstill due to the fact I expressed anything so positive as desire. I am here and not there, but while preoccupation meshes trepidation, what's on my mind is why Fallen fails. Sutherland has that bouffant with which grandees coast. Goodman is the disruptively hidden force; Gandolfini is the foil not in on the secret, and Davidtz is the distressed damsel who is at best a mediocre guide. Hoblit's pacing is plodding, but this was meant to be a film that pit Hobbes against inexorable forces, and ends on a trick in such a way as to feel sold, even if a sordid atmosphere was meant to be complicit with the sensibility of the brooding horrific. Had it been tighter, the natural approach might have worked.
I have to put the condition of this efficiency out of my mind. I don't have my tools, my monetary affluence has depreciated and been absorbed back into making my defiant body the improvished stepping stone, and I'm rolling in a wheelbarrow and I'm leaving and filing a hate crime complaint. I have to write my cover letter.
Showing posts with label housekeeping. Show all posts
Showing posts with label housekeeping. Show all posts
Monday, July 27, 2015
Wednesday, April 23, 2014
Shirley
Simon Baker's little escapade with Winona serves as an example of why I do not utilize comedies all that often. I am interviewing a student this afternoon, and if the student doesn't work I talked with another resident's CNA, whose name is, in fact, Shirley (score a double entendre for Hazel, as I did not realize my post title was playing second base) and may simply wind up with her after my viola training with Craigslist.
At this point I anticipate offering the horn of Africa visitation rights while I take a fugue conniption in a sand dune. My mother was, cruelly put, skid marks in a fat lady's underwear, which is why I have not the least idea when it was last I wore panties, as I'm an impaction on a roll, like my ex, Frank, indolent on stained underliners. Taupin, of course, meant "Stinker," to be a subversive celebration of the sixties counter culture, but being the real thing is the source of much of my masochism: if not my father threatening my life, then my landlord always in a state of warfare. Never changes. I could stop writing and simply police my own odor borne clutter and it still would not change. I have a complex and graphic story I am working on still called "The Monsters That Go Bump" where I try to offer my readers a visual of my assault as it happened rather than abstracting it in an essay. I still get heart palpitations when I remember it. I based my main character on a dead social worker, but what I have to take care not to be too blatant about in a blog post I let all hell break loose in this fiction, and the crippled woman, under therapy for it in prison, kills her quite innocent attendant in revenge for the assault.
It is a hard story, one I may never finish and may fain find a publisher for, as I make no apologies for its glittering hatreds. Not that I plan any harm to any paraprofessionals, but I hate them all. Most of them. Hate is the one emotion that streams a constant in my fountain. This one woman who contacted me sounds incredibly devout, so upon turning it over she's a skip, almost an anachronism, much like Shirley Booth, in a dinosaur age.
At this point I anticipate offering the horn of Africa visitation rights while I take a fugue conniption in a sand dune. My mother was, cruelly put, skid marks in a fat lady's underwear, which is why I have not the least idea when it was last I wore panties, as I'm an impaction on a roll, like my ex, Frank, indolent on stained underliners. Taupin, of course, meant "Stinker," to be a subversive celebration of the sixties counter culture, but being the real thing is the source of much of my masochism: if not my father threatening my life, then my landlord always in a state of warfare. Never changes. I could stop writing and simply police my own odor borne clutter and it still would not change. I have a complex and graphic story I am working on still called "The Monsters That Go Bump" where I try to offer my readers a visual of my assault as it happened rather than abstracting it in an essay. I still get heart palpitations when I remember it. I based my main character on a dead social worker, but what I have to take care not to be too blatant about in a blog post I let all hell break loose in this fiction, and the crippled woman, under therapy for it in prison, kills her quite innocent attendant in revenge for the assault.
It is a hard story, one I may never finish and may fain find a publisher for, as I make no apologies for its glittering hatreds. Not that I plan any harm to any paraprofessionals, but I hate them all. Most of them. Hate is the one emotion that streams a constant in my fountain. This one woman who contacted me sounds incredibly devout, so upon turning it over she's a skip, almost an anachronism, much like Shirley Booth, in a dinosaur age.
Friday, April 4, 2014
Doris Day Always In Your Head
I'm so sorry but I am not going to be able to work for you for at least three or four weeks . Something's happened with my mom and I need to leave for New Jersey in about ten minutes. I'd rather not get into it over email but when I can I'll give you a call to explain. Once again I apologize and I hope you are able to find somebody else to work for you for the time being . Take care.
Just as I posted. A five minute luxury, the feeling I'd be able to get along with him, the help. I have put so much time and effort into resisting strangulation through the Medicaid waiver. I hired him despite my online stand against the lifestyle and culture, and here we go again. I have a back up, but he won't be available for awhile.
K cera cera
*
I had forgotten what it's like to enjoy the pleasure in someone's company. I really had. It is terrible, in a way.
Just as I posted. A five minute luxury, the feeling I'd be able to get along with him, the help. I have put so much time and effort into resisting strangulation through the Medicaid waiver. I hired him despite my online stand against the lifestyle and culture, and here we go again. I have a back up, but he won't be available for awhile.
K cera cera
*
I had forgotten what it's like to enjoy the pleasure in someone's company. I really had. It is terrible, in a way.
Saturday, March 29, 2014
Carcano Ammunition
"So write."-- Howard Stern, when he was still at WMMR
Would it surprise you to learn I hired a 32 year old homosexual who enjoys cooking? I did it because of my post traumatic stress, and I told him about that, the assault. I also insinuated something about the damage to my health under the Medicaid waiver. I told him not to read my blog, this account, deflected what he presumed to be my progressive sympathy for gay marriage, and will admit to you, should he find my spastic dowager url and quit due to my reactionary stance, I will feel it. I am not so far sociopathic yet; however, beneath my conscience, I don't care, honestly, and this reflects how bloody far gone I am; he is white, still relatively young, and I've spent far too much time and money on housekeeping since my divorce and frustration with Tim Artis, sinking in quicksand; this is all I am doing, watching my emotional pain smoke from inside and out.
There is a writing job at Princeton and I'm telling myself to submit my resume and worry about the obstacles later, but my body is over a half century old and I am not sure who I'm kidding. People who knew me in the 90's here are shocked when they see the toll the damage my rift with Linda has taken on me. It has not been as much as some, but nevertheless, the damage has been considerable, more than all the sum total of my epistolary arts, to Ron Offen, the poet who never published me in Free Lunch, but responded to me by telling me about his wife's cancer. I carried his letters into work in my early days with Matrix at their strange, somewhat queer Alden Park offices. I wrote to everyone in the Len Fulton network, and even emailed Len himself later on when he took my SPR oped.
Now I post, to everyone, in theory, but it is not the same. Salutations on paper to individuals were my message in a bottle. I am not strong enough to re-matriculate people, and I am not sure what to do. Finding a Kevorkian to deliver me from getting buried by indigence is a dicey proposition. Writing from the heart is no longer a guarantee of anything, and even if Blogger allows me to resign into Ad Sense when I close LiveJournal, which should occur soon, I cannot really afford to pay in. I obviously do not cater to popular sentiment.
Kisha asks how I am, and I haven't responded to her yet. I fired her twice, yet she found my account on LinkedIn and let bygones be. I've no reason to troll the girl, relatively dark skinned with a son, she's more affluent than I, with my useless education.
Jerry doesn't know how many tears I shed for getting his signature on Vulgar Exhibitions. He was simply a teacher looking for an apartment, and I allowed this desultory instance to ruin my damn life. I should have simply asked him for a pity fuck and absorbed the damage from a cursory and brutal rejection, c'est pas? Enough men despise me if they do not view me as hustle slut trash otherwise.
Would it surprise you to learn I hired a 32 year old homosexual who enjoys cooking? I did it because of my post traumatic stress, and I told him about that, the assault. I also insinuated something about the damage to my health under the Medicaid waiver. I told him not to read my blog, this account, deflected what he presumed to be my progressive sympathy for gay marriage, and will admit to you, should he find my spastic dowager url and quit due to my reactionary stance, I will feel it. I am not so far sociopathic yet; however, beneath my conscience, I don't care, honestly, and this reflects how bloody far gone I am; he is white, still relatively young, and I've spent far too much time and money on housekeeping since my divorce and frustration with Tim Artis, sinking in quicksand; this is all I am doing, watching my emotional pain smoke from inside and out.
There is a writing job at Princeton and I'm telling myself to submit my resume and worry about the obstacles later, but my body is over a half century old and I am not sure who I'm kidding. People who knew me in the 90's here are shocked when they see the toll the damage my rift with Linda has taken on me. It has not been as much as some, but nevertheless, the damage has been considerable, more than all the sum total of my epistolary arts, to Ron Offen, the poet who never published me in Free Lunch, but responded to me by telling me about his wife's cancer. I carried his letters into work in my early days with Matrix at their strange, somewhat queer Alden Park offices. I wrote to everyone in the Len Fulton network, and even emailed Len himself later on when he took my SPR oped.
Now I post, to everyone, in theory, but it is not the same. Salutations on paper to individuals were my message in a bottle. I am not strong enough to re-matriculate people, and I am not sure what to do. Finding a Kevorkian to deliver me from getting buried by indigence is a dicey proposition. Writing from the heart is no longer a guarantee of anything, and even if Blogger allows me to resign into Ad Sense when I close LiveJournal, which should occur soon, I cannot really afford to pay in. I obviously do not cater to popular sentiment.
Kisha asks how I am, and I haven't responded to her yet. I fired her twice, yet she found my account on LinkedIn and let bygones be. I've no reason to troll the girl, relatively dark skinned with a son, she's more affluent than I, with my useless education.
Jerry doesn't know how many tears I shed for getting his signature on Vulgar Exhibitions. He was simply a teacher looking for an apartment, and I allowed this desultory instance to ruin my damn life. I should have simply asked him for a pity fuck and absorbed the damage from a cursory and brutal rejection, c'est pas? Enough men despise me if they do not view me as hustle slut trash otherwise.
Monday, September 9, 2013
On the P & Q
"It's not my credibility on the line." --Barack Obama, defense lawyer
I may have hired a dead resident's old caretaker, and we've set the meeting for Tuesday morning; I am already picturing the contraction of her facial muscles as she tries not to react to my habitat, not sure if I should push myself hard to clean before our meeting, or if she has the experience not to be judgmental. Black? Yes, but if we can reach an understanding and I can keep her at arm's length, I can dial down my stress.
Obama has so utterly disappointed me I have lost faith in my country, and I'll never get it back. In 08, at his campaign headquarters, before he lost PA to Hillary by nine percentage points, while his youthful acolytes swarmed upstairs and downstairs, and I met uptight white middle aged political operatives in double breasted pinstripes, a hustler from the neighborhood held his hand out, trying to take my contribution to the campaign for himself, and that is Philadelphia. Contextualized against Fruitvale Station, you dismiss this, my over developed social fear and contempt, correct?
The boomer generation, those closer to my mother's age, did not know what the slogan meant, this "change we can believe in". Neither did I, but I was amazed at the energy Obama had behind him, and was astounded. I cannot tell you what I hoped for, maybe that his success would allow me to spring back, to change my environment. TARP and the ACA have not improved my circumstances. While the administration was young, the insurance coverage I had dropped me, and Trudy Richardson, regardless of her recent contraction, escalated pressure on me to the breaking point. I remain scathed, weary of always feeling the need to have my back up, that I can never let go, relax, and work, because someone needs entry, to check fire alarms the residents set off once a week, or to replace my pipe, sign a petition, inspect the unit, ride a power outage, review my fiances to make sure I am not hiding a fucking fortune. If I had my own writing studio, Siberia might seem like a blessed luxury in contrast to this nigger beehive. No one will take me in. The only thing I can do is apply for jobs and grants I do not have the accreditation nor the stamina to maintain.
I may have hired a dead resident's old caretaker, and we've set the meeting for Tuesday morning; I am already picturing the contraction of her facial muscles as she tries not to react to my habitat, not sure if I should push myself hard to clean before our meeting, or if she has the experience not to be judgmental. Black? Yes, but if we can reach an understanding and I can keep her at arm's length, I can dial down my stress.
Obama has so utterly disappointed me I have lost faith in my country, and I'll never get it back. In 08, at his campaign headquarters, before he lost PA to Hillary by nine percentage points, while his youthful acolytes swarmed upstairs and downstairs, and I met uptight white middle aged political operatives in double breasted pinstripes, a hustler from the neighborhood held his hand out, trying to take my contribution to the campaign for himself, and that is Philadelphia. Contextualized against Fruitvale Station, you dismiss this, my over developed social fear and contempt, correct?
The boomer generation, those closer to my mother's age, did not know what the slogan meant, this "change we can believe in". Neither did I, but I was amazed at the energy Obama had behind him, and was astounded. I cannot tell you what I hoped for, maybe that his success would allow me to spring back, to change my environment. TARP and the ACA have not improved my circumstances. While the administration was young, the insurance coverage I had dropped me, and Trudy Richardson, regardless of her recent contraction, escalated pressure on me to the breaking point. I remain scathed, weary of always feeling the need to have my back up, that I can never let go, relax, and work, because someone needs entry, to check fire alarms the residents set off once a week, or to replace my pipe, sign a petition, inspect the unit, ride a power outage, review my fiances to make sure I am not hiding a fucking fortune. If I had my own writing studio, Siberia might seem like a blessed luxury in contrast to this nigger beehive. No one will take me in. The only thing I can do is apply for jobs and grants I do not have the accreditation nor the stamina to maintain.
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