The Grande Braderie de Lille attracted 2.5 million visitors-- the BBC, ever reliable vestige of the world order its empire aspired to install
Allow me to preface this by writing that I know beforehand that my participation on collaborative sites like Niume is voluntary: if I want to stop, then stop if I really believe I'm worth more. My real point of contention is that over participation in social media lends itself to dumbing down, not developing signature distinction of voice. This is why I prefer caustic vitriol. The negativity in nasty honesty is a motivating vision, but in the context of a disabled woman in the crowd, my experience on LinkedIn is that a significant number of users were too paranoid to engage, and in my limited attempts to be active in its quasi-academic whizbiz portal, I was intimidated at first, then flagged for relevance, and so we all learn to post next to nothing, unless we're in private groups. I now succeed just fine on LimkedIn by not typing, though my known real world enemies also have CV listings on the network competitor.
Stay offline? Force myself? I make an effort. but it is increasingly difficult to write and pitch and job hunt without search. Plugging in is both lifeline and anathema, a gauze bandage and a frustration. I've relaxed slightly on FB, warily, and fear the administrators in my network will suspend me on twitter, because the need to bite will eventually get the best of me, with profligate necessity, though I want it as a resource, sparing as that may be; but Niume makes me recoil, as if to ball myself in a protective posture from human ordinance. The savant may inhabit the intellect, but it is still an intellect, not a shopping spree in the Lille Flea Market, held in abeyance after the Paris attacks.
The good news, such as I have any, is that I found my coffee essay, finally, weirdly, and I am likely to field 20 rejections over it, by excoriating Frank's ghost, planking it with sentiments about the perils of commodity and retail. The stupid bastard antagonized me, and still I lack the decency to allow the maggots enough time to clear the skeleton of gangrene in its moldy coffin. But I can tell you why this is: Lava Hulk was my lengthiest failed relationship, and I comprehend the retreat to The Altar of The Dead, while I clarify once more. Platforms for organizations have the right not to respond, but I should have the right as well to express my desire for prospective partnership. Content pages increasing lack procedural steps on how to gain access, whether non profit, or independent media.
The foster child is mine now. Grumbling. She is my last cat, and I still cannot say it was right, but if I had given her back, Vinnie would have been depressed, and like a mother who cannot stand the guilt of loving the lesser son less, if I had been as realistic as I should have been, this guilt would have probably led to fresh psychiatric evaluations, involuntarily mandated rather than freely sought to allieviate. I need work people, technical support, and my ad banners.
I love cats more than anything, but I care about my ability to be good to them, and I am too haunted by losing them, and will never have Joey again. Tim, my helper off the rolls, aims his barbs at me, particularly on ambitious days when I am wound hard and want him to come and go as rapidly as possible, but I do not sleep all day, an observation both he and my sister believe, in their exclusive views, is an accurate observation of my denial that pharmaceutical dependency would upgrade my outlook, and I'd kick his ass if I could, hers too. I have to get out of the chair to change my position. My legs swell and like many of his other clients, meaning he should know better, I have a pressure sore. If liberals don't meet these challenges, I am going to kick their asses through aligning myself with Krauthammer in the creation of the Militant Quad Party. And this is not all hyperbole, not entirely a barb of my own to stub progressives toes. I always have to bite my tongue, why? Because gay is now a gnostic spiritual quest, and blacks like Tim don't have my erudition. I have been impolitic myself with the fellow in the provision of free sociology lectures, but I am getting real tired, with celerity, of getting singled out for behavioral issues that are not symptoms of mental illness in and of themselves without factoring in the severity of my physical vulnerability. If I could find anyone else who would do the job and keep their mouths shut about my life, I would burn not a few minority views about wheelchair users, and fire him like a raging bull, to boot.
What I am attempting to emphasize here is not Timothy's prejudicial views as a passive and harried paraprofessional, or that my bigotry is virtuous, but that in certain respects, provincialism was beneficial to our species, and losing the bond of extended familial ties cannot be augmented by regulated social services. We speak nearly an entirely different language, Tim and I, even if he has the non threatening aspects coded in appropriately so that my trust is not too wary. I told him I was waiting for him to finish so that I could work on what I need to do to update my curriculum vitae, and he took this to mean I blamed him for my delay in filling out a job application. He has absolutely no idea what a cv is, what creating a professional paper trail looks like, and it is not that I do not understand; I understand perfectly, but also eschew liberalism's holy grail that diversity solves our problems. Was it necessarily a good thing that a private university accepted me, that my professors led me to believe I could become like them, on the one hand, while on the other the student body treated me like a foreign object?
