Pulmonary Obstruction Cycles

"I've had my setbacks too."-- a  technician the dowager will likely never commission again who freely divulged his skepticism with HomeAdvisor.

I wish to clarify what I wrote in Green Room about fundamental inequality. No one is to blame for the hardship imposed by spastic quadriplegia. What is worthy of censure is the religious outcry for our lives which thereafter essentially leaves us on our own beyond a certain point. Google doesn't have to allow me continued use of its AdSense services, for instance, and I created my own difficulty there through the abandon of my LiveJournal account, but I still have an inactive AdSense account with 3 dollars and 45 cents I rightfully earned, even if I am rhetorically otherwise unacceptable. I have no idea if Google still actively supports this pay for play option, but its disability services unit should be able to assist me in transferring that amount over to Shareaholic, or another provider. I cannot be like Leopold Bloom and know everything about software coding. Everyone has limits, intellectually and within pedagogue applications, and thanks to the folly of poorly deployed nepotism, I will be chained to the Commonwealth's dispensed with, and revised notions, of Medicaid Waiver services for the foreseeable future. Everything I've written about it still remains true, even with this paraprofessional and I settled into a begrudging routine, my overwrought awakening stymied. I asked him to tone it down, his attempt to badger me into happiness, and he likes another inner city single mother of two who had a miserable holiday. I cannot live life on a fraudulent buoy which only looks sturdy but is otherwise a filament, and it is entirely permissible for Ross Douthat and the Kathleen Parker's of this world to be equanimous patricians. My outcry isn't over inevitable biological decline. My outcry is over the near continuous disaster brought about by the failure of durable goods, ignorance of the black public housing wardens I have to contend with, like Gail Sims. She is clueless in relation to how stringent state or Commonwealth compliance requirements are, and it is in fact her job to at least have an awareness of the rules. I got paid $25k in the 90s to advocate for my clients out of these insane labyrinths, and now I have to arm wrestle nigger hicks out of the boon docks *shielded*, in the absolutely persuasive contention of Richard Dawkins, by the Presbyterian applied doxology of predestination.
Will I delete this post for a living commission or living wage contract? Certainly. Is it invalid? No. The obstacles I have to continuously surmount are inhumane, and I'm not living in Kabul. Libertarians shouldn't be fearful of examining market weaknesses, but by the same token, progressives need to realize that federated partnerships with nominal Christian denominations funded by established religions needs to come to an end. Presbyterian Homes gets away with murder. I have the right to self-defense, especially as, every time I am nearly ready to launch a genre collection, my survival is mysteriously, rather suddenly, at stake.

Great Expectations

we're gonna keep comin at ya

I cannot write a post long enough to explain with what frequency case managers intertwined themselves in my life, whether vocationally, or mental health issues due to my mother, or in institutional rehabilitation, but Presbyterian Homes, from the time I moved into Riverside in 1994, virtually invented same sex marriage in relation to the frequency with which their managers and social workers disavowed my right to privacy, and I do not mean solely the current team. Debra Horne is, for lack of any other way to phrase it, a sad testament to the human condition when individuals with low IQ interbreed, and this is exactly why Presby hired her. Intimidating, high tan, Mississippi accent like bile in her throat I think she came here in a jean jumper in 05. Black. Bull. Dyke, just ahead of her tenants to wield her invisible baton. I did not know what I was setting myself up for with this shuffling minority matron, her hernia, lesbianistic overtones, nearly amalgam of the orderlies who abused me under Dr. Chance. After what I have been through in North Philadelphia, I carry no guilt about despising her, don't care a jot if mother's family is appalled, and this woman's cruel arrogance is a living rebuttal to whatever Jeffrey's treatise is on the right's collectivism. Minorities can be as morally corrosive as anyone else, and it used to be Debra I wanted to have punished, but that has since been upgraded. Debra's immediate superior has committed a criminal offense, and I'll see Trudy Richardson on the other side of a civil suit, or force Philadelphia's finest to mortally injure me, and one of you shall give my lifelong melancholy turned rogue a fine eulogy, I am sure. Mettle, spirit, and all that, even if there aren't people quite suited to human existence, people we'd be better off without.


But in 1986, I tried hard to be a good compliant tenant, nearly slept with the son of a reverend, and discovered identity politics, a righteous cause, in Jonathan Capehart's voice, to be nothing more than moral poison. I have always more or less enveloped myself in despondency. Some quadriplegics do better, some worse, and my intelligence, applied to my pain, makes me an existential threat-- my Senator's tolerance doesn't want to peer too deeply into my militancy which applauds him most of the time, and I'd stop Casey junior cold, not having anything to lose in the darkness of the unsaid, only made worse because, I know, intrinsically, my hourglass doesn't have too much quality sand left before the upper chamber metes out my allotment. Look at all this has taken out of me, the economics of appeasing "a fraternal contractor," who your taxes subsidizes to intentionally break *us* down. Some bloody system. I spent my savings cleaning this apartment. Not all of it, but a great deal went into Tim's pocket, or a cleaning service, then Karina. Now it has evaporated, and I have since been under constant threat because I don't want to be whored off again under welfare's sterling subcontractors. I've yet to hear any libertarian stampede, however, to run my vacuum, throw in a load of laundry. They've all got hard ons for block chain code.

Tubular Enemy

Famine (Irish: an Gorta Mór, [anˠ ˈgɔɾˠt̪ˠa mˠoːɾˠ]) or the Great Hunger was a period of mass starvation, disease, and emigration in Ireland between 1845 and 1852.

Do you ever expend useless capital on a frivolous enterprise? I was examining my LinkedIn Pulse transmissions, wondering why I want to write a LinkedIn post in the first place. I've been out of the game a very long time due to Philadelphia's periodic contractions of services leading up to the Great Recession; by 2010, despite cyclic familial monetary gifts, my money market account was wiped out, and I am exactly back where I was at the age of 23, except for the apartment, this one less functional than that on 1500 West Page Street. Out of curiosity I plugged my old zip code in search 19121, and came up with numerous dead articles and defeated HUD promises about humane, aesthetic, disability housing, wondering if this is an alternate Google verse. Why is writing a relatively generic and nondescript LinkedIn post important to me? To prove I'm still capable, not white trash, not so broken I cannot speak business? The writer Mark Johnson actually is listed as a Leftist Review contributor, hence I found him outside of Yabberz, to hypothetically tell his bosses he is an uncouth bastard, something I could never get away with on LinkedIn Pulse, on which I'd hardly be featured. I cannot afford to support LinkedIn, even if I had not been defeated by governmental insistence on spend down of my resources; regardless, without some form of steady commissions, I would have been wiped out anyway. What do I still believe I am able to do? In terms of my age and all the rest?

I can hardly answer. It is akin to the differential between an agnostic and a Roman Catholic atheist who should lie down. My drive, curiously, went splat for a bit after I got a yes on my pitch. I am procrastinating again, no set deadline, but not ready to blow two gigabytes frying my brain on comparative data and need to relax, keep pitching, stay aware of the fact I'm no longer 35, get some rest, and trust in the fact that if I am not going to Inglis House, then be assured of my own strength and let the state know it will have to kill me first. There are publications I wouldn't submit to. Not that Mark's is one of them, but he'd probably have me black balled if he put my avatars together. Dog days coming in. I think I could move to Ohio without much culture shock, if I could stay out of the hood.

PS: twitter assisted me with my research without so much as a blink, and that is something.

Free Ride

I do not have much for you this morning, other than a sense of being disgruntled, as I usually am, after parring viral communities down to size. I feel a certain weariness with blinding myself to the fact that I allow myself to be exploited, wobbling down the damn stepladder as opposed to holding my own. Ta-Nehisi, whose tag I now have to repair, was frank enough to tell readers the truth during the crescendo over Cosby: we don't make a great deal of money even under the brand name. This includes The New Republic prior to Chris Hughes, and okay, I struggled with an unsuitable community once again, get over it-- but LinkedIn hasn't been a five star venue either, exactly-- although I am taking another look. These platforms are indicating new ways hapless flat foots gain exposure, and I grasp the LinkedIn voice preference just enough, that with care, I can fake its light arcania sentiments, on some relevant issue I don't mind giving away.

I am tired and in pain and comfortably starving so as not to aggravate aged patriarch with mummified third wife; and it could be worse. I've written strong pitches, weak pitches, fucked pitches with typographical errors and still, I pitch, and Yabberz users did, now and again, give me a new market. If I had stayed, I would have threatened to kill the entire body of California liberals, as a class unique unto themselves. 

There is something superficially inimical about those domicile to the golden state, not that I feel particularly generous to modal libertarians either. We need to learn how to bond in mutual support now and again, and if I roll out of public housing, I need someone to catch me, not just suck me dry as a consumer.  Exposing Melissa's limits was exactly that. I can write about the public housing system as a corrupt and quiet holocaust forever, but who, exactly, would intervene? Catholicism even agrees with Presby's lies treating the broken with dignity. It is for our own good, or it isn't that you don't care, but you're sinking in an underwater mortgage too. I hear you, but section 811 and 202 are Satan's sadistic pleasures brought to life, the corrosion of defeat caught between our teeth without a decent polish and floss. It needs to end, even for nonagenarian bones. Regardless of who we fucking speak to, what we fucking say, a public housing tenant is so much chattel, a classification, automatically relegated, and I will show up in New Wales soon to find Toomey's campaign, and I intend to raise the damn dead when I do, if I have to, to break HUDs power.

No Automated Mail Today

I am supposing I received my answer from Toomey's team in the form of a non-answer, despite the fact I cleanly let a little hair down. I know they are busy and not worried about an angry, powerless woman, and her blog account. Even if federal law enforcement wants to prick up its ears on my behalf, I'm old, hygiene challenged, and the parent rental company in which I'm trapped has every rational conviction to boot me, but that is my objection: terrorizing and humiliating me since the system of structures and supports collapsed over my head doesn't solve anything, despite so called HUD protections. I do not have much quality time left, and need to stop shrinking like a violet. Just not sure how to get there, aside from telling a gay politician to fuck off, between a vacuum of nothing and nothing. I do agree with many of Pat's convictions, not all, certainly. I have to run.

Rectal Dilemma

"I am urban, educated--" Richard Dreyfuss, to his less well preserved romantic lead Marsha Mason, many odd years ago, with far less age spots

Head a trifle low. Spastic isn't feeling well, with unfamiliar stomach upset, perhaps the popcorn, a weakness for Trader Joe's white corn bacon flavor. Maybe I should eat plain bread for a day or two. I am fortunate not to have many problems with spasms and swallowing, but tend to allow cravings to guide me once in awhile, and wind up paying the piper. I asked the TJ crew if they use press agents, and then got a bit simpy. "Would you make a job for me?" What kind of self-pitying inquiry is that, mind? I know better and don't know why I utilized such a strategism, and you might imagine Toomey's people might find the dowager's attempted participation in his reelection a double-edged sword. We shall see. I have some ideas for his operatives, but I have to stabilize and get some laundry done before I pay his regional location a visit, and hold my brutal honesty about my character flaws in check.

Why rally around Pat Toomey? In part it is the fact his staff stroked my ego on first contact, by telephoning me. It reminded me that I'm not without the power of conviction despite how long it's been since I was salaried, not that they helped me with Presby, and only did the standard thing, sending me forms I've yet to send back. I hate HUD, however, and if I wanted national office I'd defund the Dept. of Housing and Urban Development in the blink of an eye. All HUD does is elevate cronyism to a bureaucratic art.

I stopped everything to pay attention to ABC's Madoff, and my subtext was how long Dreyfuss and his channeled mania has been in my face. Can anyone teleport Altoid's?

Heat Advisory

Even in the worst of circumstances, writers write in their minds, only to draw blanks on all the vivacious verbiage in their heads once in front of the damn keyboard, and the only thing roaring at me now is "I can't go through this again," except I have to go through it again. I can't thrive in this world of applications and computer science. I can't surrender without that surrender translating into a certified nursing assistant's paycheck, or some other facsimile of an aide. The welfare state and its fucking solutions. Aides. Aides like Monica Carr. I've posted about her, her lupus, her morbid obesity worse than my mother's.

She's on the third floor in her client's studio because she can't breathe, and I am like one of the furies waiting to tap dance while she enters Hades. 

A post is not a community, and Blogger will be relieved, no doubt, if I go, kicking and screaming, as the reality of my age forces me back into either a centralized facility, or I stay here in the forced diversity under contract with the Department of Housing and Urban Development. If the oligarchs in Putin's vast tundra want a bone, HUD is the most corrupt federal department in the United States, and that seems contingent regardless of ideology. Real estate equals corruption leading to bribery.

Yes, I have fonts of material yet, yes, I need to be realistic about the fact that I'm 53 and psychotherapy would saturate my fucking bloodstream with an anti-anxiety agent, and thereby I go from battered wife syndrome to a drone on a gurney while my mood is regulated while the aide changes my diaper, but I'm worn out. No, Philly isn't all that bad away from minority residential areas, and yes, I have a lousy attitude. I hate the vernacular "have a blessed day," and I'd be over joyed if I never hear it uttered out of another African American mouth, and even if I could relocate, I'm too old to ever be safe.

I was going to assert that I quit, but I cannot say I will not return tomorrow after a bowl of plain angel hair-- but this is the beginning of my goodbye. I can't be too unforgiving toward my best instructors. Maybe I was bipolar then and simply wasn't diagnosed. I bothered my academic advisor as often as I was pining about God-Shakespearean (wry self-pity), but in any event, I've had enough, and now, having sat in this god awful power chair far too long, I am afraid to leave the Toshiba on. It is now making strange sounds, like a smoke detector, and my Hewlett Packard, though pricier, is older still. Sniff.  

A Piss Off, in essence

The sardonic in me, the competing desires which cancel each other out, these say I want to go home, but the IRS forced my father to divest himself of the home I might have inherited, and at the same time, I want nothing more to do with my family. I'm too far in the gutter as it is, never imagining myself here at Riverside. Before I moved in, it must have been around spring 92, Paratransit picked me up, and the driver locked me down behind Linda, to my astonishment, still committed to her first marriage, and we passed the building riding into Liberty, observed Joe, always running his mouth, and Linda remarked, "We've had a lot of problems with them." Presby's management.

I did not make it clear to her, after having divested myself of Matrix, those seven years later, that it was Presby's management fueling my desperation, as opposed to the not so interesting sexual rivalry I unwittingly triggered with the woman, and here I am, beaten, since Mike Howard left, by each subsequent manager after him, attack after attack, threat after threat, freely administered by the Department of Housing and Urban Development, lunging and retreating like the cowardly lion, why not just begin eviction proceedings? My savings now spent on medical bills and buying janitors, slaving away at penny articles, and I'm supposed not to be depressed, keep a positive attitude, reign it in before the police drag me out and dump me somewhere, a building where I'll be drugged, held in a hospital bed in restraints, if I'm so fortunate.

This is the great United States, democratic power extraordinaire, unless you screw with the tax code, have your soul corroded by statutory mandates, and do not wish to comply with African Americans having constant access to your financials in order that the government can protect itself from any fraudulent activity on your part. The disability center, relying on my tacit passivity, sent me a flyer for a job fair at their Academy, which is some sort of vocational horseshit training consumers to use computers. Well, I have something to say to Liberty Resources: Go fuck yourselves. You're nothing more than a segregated prostitution ring run by den mothers who think they're preschool teachers once removed, offering quadriplegics like me assurance after assurance, until you violate state employee guidelines, or assume no liability if a disabled consumer gets abused, refuse to return phone calls when a disabled worker needs technical support, engage in denial about hostile environments, cannot restrain yourselves from the corruption of association. I wore myself out, food shopping, then a small load of laundry, in my stubborn, rage driven reliance, too worn out to work.

The Mucinex Capsules Slipped My Mind

Yael Grauer is right about one thing: Choices we make intersect with how life experience molds our outlook. Emotional over-investment can impede success, as much as alienation can enhance it, but in reading her post about her depressed friend, the dividing line comes into play: why ambulatory people who have work they care about would commit suicide is beyond me, and her work smacks of an insular narcissism typical of all Americans. Who among us would want to be in Jason Rezaian's predicament, whatever our problems? An Iranian interment might change my mind about bronchodilators, perhaps with lightning speed, although it would be something for the imagination, wouldn't it? Pitting caustic spastic intelligence against the Persian Revolutionary Guard. Acute blunt force trauma, and voila, one bravely deformed skeleton is a minute addition to anthropology. Where was I?

Suicide, or my fascination with Burry's speculative success, his willingness to trust Michael Lewis with such an intimate portrait in The Big Short, which I'm reading on loan. If I tried to invest the little I have left in any sort of speculative fiance I'd run afoul of HUD. Libertarians may hate the Internal Revenue Service, but if they had the clout to dismantle HUD I'd be able to move toward decomposition with some residue of pleasure. Every public housing unit in this country and not a few university apartments, look exactly the same, perhaps built up with Chinese drywall.

Before I graduated to COPD, I had chronic bronchitis, which Rick might remember, and expectorants used to clear me up, with a great deal of fluid, and I've cheated myself this way for many years, like a leper in a Philippine sanatorium, yet another de facto colony of the United States. Why do Asians inhabit these islands? Like many disparate regions in Africa, things haven't changed outside of Manila, beyond Imelda Marcos absences for a lampooning article in Time, and never forgotten from my history lessons was McKinley and his deplorable governance of  the islands at the turn of the century. Of course in 110 it has metamorphosed into progressive determinism, with typhoons and cluster villages ravaged by flooding. 

Forget my conflicts with my building managers, work, take it easy, and bolt, one last time, die hard, die well, write a better post in forty-eight hours. Forgive myself for being an asshole, something I find rather difficult to do.

The gait of Toru Tanaka

"You're not living here at Riverside!"-- Trudy Richardson in April 2008  when I could not clean the apartment because it was taking me over a year to get Medicare to repair my old power chair or get me a new one.

My neighbor Jay moved into this Presby location approximately the same time as I did, a paraplegic from a fall at a construction site when he was nineteen. Younger than I am, his health is deteriorating in an alarming fashion. Tim, my long serving domestic collusionist, informed me yesterday that Jay is in the hospital with a serious blood infection, and his family may "put him in a nursing home." This is not the fate of every low income tenant under the PresbyHomes umbrella, but the majority of us are driven insane by the company's daily rhythm, a rhythm driven by this efficacious department, driven by state inspectors, or by Presby itself.

Jay is sick because he does nothing but sit and smoke in his unit and doesn't move, and the blood pools in our legs, buttocks. I am informing you of his plight not to gossip, but to illustrate the despair of forced marginalization even within section 811/202 vectors. Jay has no where near my education, but he would certainly understand why I have been raising my voice for so long on the Internet about the sterile cruelty of the social safety net in the US, and there has to be a better way, which is why I think the HUD independent living modules need to be dismantled and made more fluid, more private property oriented with regional community support.

I want to be in a private apartment *supported* by affluent Caucasians, possibly Asians, and undoubtedly Roman Catholics, whom I feel are trustworthy. And those affluent individuals need to be more involved with those struck by chronic conditions, whether at birth, or later. You aren't. Tanaka, in order not to injure Chuck Norris, action star silly air, tosses him over the bar in An Eye For An Eye. Primitive choreography due to safety concerns. If I could inhabit Kalani with my hidden limp, I would have fractured Chuck's skull by slamming it into the bar panels, and as I critique more policy, maybe you will one day understand that anger. I still share it with more visible activists, despite my rift with them.