When is it puree?

"They later reversed the policy." --Judy Woodruff on Facebook and beheading videos

Elonis v US brings together a number of tawdry elements which eventually leads to enlightenment in civil and criminal code, just as the Web is under no obligation to grant the indignation of my extensive disability and my forceful rhetoric tolerance: it is actually a reflection of my reality in the temporal world. I'm needy, and my oral stream is, can be, selfish absorption, but just as this is the case for me, so it is for Anthony Elonis-- but there are differences, and in the Elonis case, the difference is the real toll domestic violence, the possibility of it, inflicts on women, to a near universal degree, sans Janay Rice, versus Elonis need to act out with his impulse control issues (just as some of you may feel I simply derive pleasure from being malicious and have no redeeming value in my content, am far too eclectic, perhaps even nullifying, if you shouldn't be worried about my zealotry with age). Well, my hypothetical detractors have a point. Search is under no obligation to refer my content in the public domain if it is too negative. I can go back to my diary and publish a nihilist rant for kindle which would sell for nothing. Google, Poets & Writers, the literature forum, the NYT online book forum formerly with Mick Sussman which I really enjoyed and forget why I dared the emperor of American liberalism with a dirty ditty, starved as I am for fine discernment, all were within their rights, and Blogger has allowed me to throb, mostly, to its credit, because I've held at least a certain degree of puerile sentiment back, partly fear, partly the knowledge I have more ambition than that, and doing my best not to let my landlord roll me out in a straight jacket-- though it may eventually come to that.

Elonis, however, is simply puerile. But why does he need to do this on Mark Zuckerberg's digital interactive yearbook which has everyone's CV barring mine? He could write a private blog and invite other men to fantasy with semi-automatics. My outrage is due to the knowledge of my legal passivity: I was afraid to fight, one, and that a litigator would not help me, and secondly, I wasn't just screwed, I was royally so and everything in my present environment recollects it: Blogger let me find the courage to have a small effect, but what do we do when people who can take it in to their head to act if they are incited to do so? Mrs. Elonis has the right to her personal security, and bad systems that become intrenched, if targeted by violence, not only escalates tragedy, but escalates the fact that we need to teach each other about over reach. Progressives bear the brunt of my anger. They told me I could succeed and it is through hard won insight discovered that they are lying Stalinists, but the right gets some too. Property ownership is still more important than anything else-- we'll come back to this. People have the right to their rage, and to their intolerances even, and fantasies, but writing as therapy, on the merits, need not have absolute access to all platforms. I'd never write a project like this in an online yearbook-- and you don't have to read my posts when I feel a ventilation, not that I know what your kids think, though I can guess. I couldn't help laughing at Judy's language that evening. ISIS in the modern world is horrific, and ghoulishly macabre. It isn't the kind of diet we really need, however. We have the movies, and the right to bear arms.

Any given Sunday

"The last five essays of writing and difference might be incomprehensible." -- Alan Bass

Me: "She might have been killed.
Frank: "So what?" in reference to Janay Rice, in an afternoon four way argument between me, my dying aunt and her internal adenocarcinoma rotting, and Karina! who telephoned me after being out of town.

Like any failed little boy, Frank defends Ray Rice, and like any fully unrealized woman, I indict Janay for her complicity, and meanwhile, I'll never be able to enjoy football again as a way to communicate with my father. Trouble, these days, trying not to hate my 80 year old parent for my brutalized childhood, but Janay's voice, in this latest national argument we're having about being black, being barbaric, can only be heard once removed: She apologized for her part in an argument where she wound up very much like the canine victims of the Shining Path. She then married her fiance despite the fact that he was charged with aggravated assault, and is now defended by minority proxies on twitter who plead with us about how hard it is to leave abusers. My problem with this is Janay had more privilege than most to decouple herself from her baller. You might ask, given that I'm losing my battle against near absolute indigence within the inexorable grind of the welfare state, if I would have walked out on the rare commodity of the professional athlete, and my answer is yes. I've been incarcerated most of my life, charged with no crime, brutalized by now obsolete orthopedic procedures, sexually assaulted at least four times, also a victim of an aggravated assault, distressed because all ableism now feels like an aggravated assault, and TMZ advocates for the brutalized female far more effectively through the acquisition of security feed better than I can ask anyone reading me to lend me a hand in my last productive years. Yet I keep talking to my ex, who would have strangled his first wife to death, because I don't have a girlfriend to speak to anymore, barring Karina, the dense nice New Church woman. She loves me, she said the last time we parted, prostituting herself for nearly 300 dollars she was neither worth, nor I able to afford, and I am not even in the lesbian slot that oral sex on pussy "feels right" to pull the vapid dialogue from Chasing Amy. Poor Marie now wants to play the pimp for her hospice care.

lacrime per Argentina

I'm well over 20k in debt, thanks to the fact that this woman needed to draw me a picture about her orgasms,  before killing me with one of Tarantino's magic swords, a woman who is exactly the same, though she and I haven't exchanged 20 words with each other in 14 years. Pongo bitch delineating a tweak in the process, and voila, supported employment will give high function mentally retarded consumers more simulated affluence. I don't know what fucking planet she lives on anymore, essentially conceding segregation with equal treatment, remember that? Brown versus Board of Education was it? And with the default monkey on my back, I'd give a few of the most radical leftists a run for their money, bad hygiene, a threadbare 6 year old section 202 housing carpet, and I am giving a penny ante digital tabloid a hard time, sulking about them, and sore about my generosity with Karina, and it amounts to the same thing, in the charming phrase of Jerome Robart, it is about tariffs we place on good pussy, or in my case, good blow jobs. Despite the enviable image Ms. Dezenski has imprinted on me, clitoris as an actual allure doesn't work for me, and that was true even during my melt down right before Thanksgiving that November when I blew back on her and then became suicidal. I'll never forget that evening, alive and blogging to you now only because my mother had to die unexpectedly in 2005 and gave her children an insurance  payout. It vanished for my sister and half brother within the year.

I am right back where I started in 2006 after Miss Eddie from Unlimited Staffing molested me, with one exception. I haven't reapplied for Medicaid and SSI. I really don't want them, as regardless of the state in which you live, welfare of this sort is exceedingly restrictive, but I'm at a loss as to what to do next. 

If any of you would want the cash payment I gave Karina, which you wouldn't, it is ten dollars an hour basically to mop vacuum, laundry, at my discretion, except I can barely afford it anymore. I am on my last legs in a inner city Stalinist model that has caused me so much trauma. Linda is still a parrot, and I?

Let me tell you something. I cannot remember why I purchased David Mitchell's Cloud Atlas. The blame may lie with the New York Times reviewer, who was provoked to the height of sublime misery by Mitchell's work. I was so impressed by the fact that a writer made a blue blood unhappy that I had to have the book. When I finished it I then faced the most serious existential threat I had since I watched my stepfather torture little Nicky, my brother, before AIDS infected him. Mitchell made me cry. He caused me pain, because he made me realize I'll never have his talent. I staked my whole life on writing, on succeeding with it, on living up to the expectations of my most sympathetic teachers. I'm nothing more than a shit harpy whose former supervisor fucked up to the point of stoking hatred which thrives through centuries. 

Let me make one more point about Ray Rice and Janay: Now that I understand the extent of the player's violence toward his wife, we expect the NFL to arbitrate the behavior of its players. I'd tell Janay to get off her fucking ass, get a lawyer, and get a move on-- the league isn't going to succeed any better than the courts in protecting battered women. Those who know Janay need to make her realize she has to make her own meal ticket. A baller's wife may be a better surety than my talent with literature, but if Rice is injured or winds up killing her, then her security seems less certain.

Julien's Father

Which one is worse, do you think, binary homosexual viciousness or a failed writer baring her fangs at vanity editors? Should we start a pool? Or ask why it is that I'm a failure and Jim Lehrer has affable Texas laurels on which his pending obituary will ride? It is a rhetorical question, attitudinal perhaps, but let me throw out a challenge flag: If progressive's are hell bent on riding to the rescue of Janay Palmer, why did she marry Rice after he dragged her unconscious body out of the elevator? She certainly wears the weariness of a defeated captive in Howard's photo. I never took my abusers back, even if bad judgment lead me to them initially. 

One understands the impetus of Jim's self-depreciation, and the JFK assassination affected him deeply, and led to political novels which I've yet to read. He survived a heart attack, and has exchanged final wishes with MacNeil, and in its over 40 year old history, what has PBS changed? It is as undeniably partisan as Fox, though with a more loquacious undertone.

I reek of perspiration. Marie does not want to rent her row home to blacks despite the fact that her grandson by marriage vandalized the property like one, and yet she wants me to rehire Timothy Artis, because I am a crippled white. I am supposed to be the bloody sainted progressive, blinded by the virtues of equality. Yes, prejudices have generational stratification, and the white Karina really didn't treat me any better than the black women before her, or the homosexual Jesse Staub evasively lying to me to get out from under the evidence of poverty on my life, but if it was my house, would I categorically red line it? Despite the caustic saline oozing out of my chest, I'd like to think I'm still not capable of that type of blanket condemnation. I am not hiring Tim back. He is a boozing addict with a record for possession who is nearly 70 and an infantile communist; dialing his number in the event of an emergency is no guarantee of anything either-- though by a miracle he saved Joey when I was evacuating the second floor to come back to the fifth, where I've been harassed into terror by my minority captors for 28 years now. Fucking charmed life.