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.

The Consequence of Bad Grooming Result in Hair Chaos

“We've got a 40-year-old allegation that is unprovable, probably,” Toomey said.

I have not weighed in on the Roy Moore candidacy, and don’t particularly care to, as I know nothing of the man in his own voice, and I am not into the MAGA fetish. I voted for Donald, but it was a vote cast on the basis of reaction against the Clintons, perhaps due to hilarity as well. I looked for ways to defend him, initially, and take responsibility for that, in my annoyance with Wapo, but as my survival has come up against a landslide of falling rocks annulling me into paralysis, I have become disaffected, not that my circumstances are the GOP’s fault. But I weary of this fake news tabloid mindset of the president, to echo Ed Rogers, and think the administration has been in place long enough now to sober up and execute, as my subversive amusement wans, and my defiance has to pit itself against diaper rash. Moore's rise in the spotlight, though he is well known in his state, is perhaps attributable to the cultural backlash I warned against when I gave my readers, incredulous or confused as they might be, personal details about the gay and lesbian predominance in groups like ADAPT and Not Dead Yet.

In point of fact, to summon up my antagonist, once again, I only saw Jimmi Shrode earlier this year, near to the onset of autumn, and he did not seem well. The cuddly ugly queen phase, when he would wear green eyeshadow and black nail polish, seems to have been discarded. He was walking with a pronounced limp, a cane, thinned out, as if he was evading belligerents such as I have been, and I wondered if he had been in an altercation, despite the fact I’ve long been out of orbit. Roy Moore’s extremism when it comes to homosexuals may seem commensurate with the dowager’s darker inclinations, but his collective condemnation is against the whole: my personal experiences have taught me that toleration is a double-edged sword.

I have read the media alarmists who feel the man’s doctrinal fidelity is an indicator of mental affect, to put it mildly.  Senator Toomey has expressed sympathy with those who allege molestation, and feels Moore should have stepped down, a position which has probably aligned him with Casey in a bipartisan gesture toward comity, but blood in the water is manifest in a myriad of casualties. I never imagined Lizza would be among them, not that I can recollect what his contributions were under Marty that earned my respect. We need to put the brakes on this misconduct hysteria, and I say that as someone irrevocably damaged. I am heartened that Lizza is saying wait a minute. If he had a prior consensual relationship, there may be a red herring in these polluted currents.

I have followers who may be considered devout, but Roy is less rational conservative, more literalist. These fissures in the body politic have come and gone before with the Christian Coalition, but this controversy is inopportune, again, distracting us from functioning.

The bitch is back

stone cold sober as a matter of fact

Teetering on the edge of a precipice doesn't stop incidental commands from firing along the neural network on which our minds are, if only that, a conceptual extension. An entreaty to Vast Drive about my block on twitter led to an interesting revelation: I am considered a pornographer. I have battled the establishment in a myriad of ways, and because  I launch into vulgar tirades, I get a label like that, pornography. Weary sigh, need to revise, as if it matters on the close of 1500 posts, reading too much into social media actions, as well. Henry Miller's nihilist rant was ruled not obscene, and I'm a pornographer. Uh huh. Vast Drive didn't block me for my politics, but because their social media manager solicited web porn, otherwise indifferently. I've been graphic, sometimes effectively, sometimes too rushed, but I am not selling "the fuck of the century," in the immortal words of Michael Douglas feint riding Sharon Stone. When Basic Instinct went to DVD, I was still imposing myself on Jimmi Shode and Erik, and you cannot see them, their thick porcine and ghoulishly androgynous human forms, not very nearly approximated on Modern Family. Jimmi is just fat, an ugly flat nose, beady insecure eyes. He pushes back against management by writing defiant nonsense on memos. I, on the other hand, have actual tort against Presby, they know it, and its getting ugly.

The Gladhandler (pseudonym because his cerebral palsy limits him) used to be one of our lambs. Parceled out between us, Erik, corrupt self-hating trans, Linda the Jewish denier prevaricator, me, Debbie. He asked me to give his aide a cigarette. He has no other existence. Who am I to judge? It isn't that I condemn limited functioning invalids, but even Sean Penn made his mentally retarded father dynamic. Gladhandler isn't, he's a dog on a leash.

You'll have to kill me first.

The ACA Is Complex, That Much We Know

When I was an undergraduate on the vaunted Medicaid, all I did was call Delcrest for power chair issues. It is much worse now, and I made a terrible mistake leaving Hahnemann Internal for the Ambulatory Practice. Hahnemann was indifferent, but mostly got me through the red tape, barring the extraordinary disaster of 2007. No chair, no attendant, as my molestation the year prior triggered a relapse, and this was when Trudy first had her team attack me, after my injuries sustained during the renovations. After going through hell, she humiliated me, and it was only because I had the money to pay my uncle's mechanics to refurbish the P-200 that I'm still here. The Jazzy is off warranty, and Jefferson treats me as if I was an Alzheimer's patient, as opposed to a quadriplegic; I have neither resources nor stamina to travel the length of the city to get past the gateway to get to the rehab personnel who might or might not keep me aloft. If you want to discuss thin ice, and the fact that I sound exactly like an activist exile, point conceded, but the activists in Philadelphia were the proximate cause of the problems I've faced. Jimmi Shrode whines like a gargantuan toddler that he'll fight all his life for wards in Inglis, those who remain passive, but that his lover's aide harassed me, or that after the violence of Diamond Park, a significant minority of attendants abused me at Riverside, or that this has been a hostile environment since 1994, never mind. I am the bitch, Jimmi is an aging pig bastard who thinks green eye shadow is still a homoerotic subversion. The Bern's charming Pol Pot paradise cleverly evaded my health insurance. I was a full time consultant. Matrix gave me a standard HMO, and now? Cancelling my Medicare may seem like a horrible idea, but what service am I getting? A resident charged me 90 dollars to tell me I wasn't diabetic. I'm hanging by a rather tenuous thread.

Warning Signs of Indigestion

Ashlock told me many a tale of the Indian wars then in progress. -- William T. Sherman, Memoirs, page 18

I understand the arbitrary nature of social media, and had more than a few bouts of distemper on twitter, most of which aren't any fun, but to my recollection I haven't harassed or harangued any followers recent or long term. I may have mentioned a few of them, but certainly have not aimed any missiles, hence my puzzlement over a recent September 9 block, as I cannot fathom why it occurred; if anyone knows something for which I might consider an apology in order then I'll consider it, as I prefer to claim ownership of the sin: it is not the loss of a follower, but the block. The block in and of itself I find mystifying. I am what I've become, and if this summer and my COPD are any indicator, I am going to drown to death in my own phlegm soon enough, or head into congestive heart failure, and shall not apologize for what Southeastern Pennsylvania living has done to me, nor my frustrated and forceful assertion as its outcome.
Gary Johnson's honest ignorance in relation to the city of Aleppo is actually classic libertarian indifference to nation-state viability, while Thiel's war with Gawker is not really a traditional libertarian response. I was going to go on about this for at least a few paragraphs, that Thiel's purchase of civil tort hurt peoples' livelihood, until I looked up some biographical facts on Nick Denton, saw pictures of him and Derrence Washington, and my reactionary synapses said okay this is a homosexual war of thermonuclear proportions. 

I have been caught in such cross fires of men with such emotionally regressive traits, and blocking it all out is only delayed prevention, in essence, as this unfortunate quadriplegic does not have the strength, this evening, to bring down the wrath of a little pig bitch like Jimmi Shrode and his allies. Just as we cannot kill our way out of disability, we cannot kill our way out of homosexuality, but the LBGT activism and its growing power is cause for concern, as there are numerous examples of others becoming victims, and I am not writing this in merely to be a provocateur, but as a victim of progressive egalitarianism at its finest. The dowager understands why liberals feel they're on the right side of history. I was in a great deal of pain when I boomeranged from the Chester-Ridley Park axis to unwittingly burrow myself in Philadelphia's Third World destitution, but I had the liberal cause burning like the spastic orgasms over which my former supervisor liked to gloat, and I was dead center wrong about what I believed could be accomplished, and now I have to perish with all my actual potential squandered.

If I had listened to everyone and had not moved into Diamond Park, I'm not sure what my counterfactual would have been, as life in the rowhomes of  my aunts was little prettier, at the end of the day, but I'm no longer young enough to turn the stern and get myself out from under, even with all those wonderful behavior modifications of the health police. Like Ellen Muth's character in Dead Like Me, I cannot go back, and my bronchial flares are worsening, though I've contained them. Loss of control hasn't gone too badly this season, but it's over. I'll never recover the exuberant life which I believed possible, and the culture wars had a great deal to do with it.

A Good Defecation, Trembling

In our times, as was remarked, no one is content with faith, but "goes right on." The question as to whither they are proceeding may be a silly question; whereas it is, a sign of urbanity and culture to assume that every one has faith, to begin with, for else it were a curious statement for them to make, that they are proceeding further.-- Soren Kierkegaard

Nice old AT&T hasn't booted me. I failed to mention, on Blogger, as well as social media, that sins of overage in my last billing period wasn't simply due to nagging pet children. I've lost my battle with nicotine, and Vuse essentially rekindled dependency, and here we are again, my emotional health doomed to a rhetoric of vehement helplessness. Despite the fact that stuffing Jimmi's balls down his throat is a boring impossibility, let me return to Mr. Shrode's sanction when he spun around on his thick elephant soles to address me with "I read your blog," two weeks ago, the spitting image of Beavis.

Jimmi and Erik are exceedingly disadvantaged freaks, as I've written before, and reading, if Jimmi did read it, that I wanted a laundry list of ADAPT activists dead is a hard pill to swallow; if someone wrote they wanted me dead I too might waffle between context and complaint, but the assertion indicates just how hard loss of faith is, then not being able to leave the source of so much pain.  We all knew each other once, Josie Byzek, Jimmi, Erik, Linda, Cassie, myself, and making assertions like that in public has rental agents justifying their continued dehumanization of my person with rationalizations. 

Erik was a source for my first HTP article, for which I was paid a decent commission. Something I may have also posted before, and I understand why the severity of their disadvantage led to their gaming of the intake center, but they absolutely refuse to admit they could ever be wrong about anything-- hence my emotional health is analogous to Olivier's caricatured sadism in The Running Man. Jimmi said "I read your blog," as if to imply my posts were compensating indicators, and maybe they are, but Jimmi's emotional maturity is that of a thirteen year old in the body of a Shirley Booth who needs a cosmetic surgeon. If he inadvertently winds up alone with me his fear of me makes him sway nervously, which only increases my contempt, this thick, fat child tyrant on whom I've wasted so much energy. He once wrote an article, submitted to Josie, that a disabled lawyer who was matriculated, representing client X against PA's rehab law, would one day "find out" the extent of the jeremiad he was aiding (my paraphrase-- Jimmi doesn't have my diction, and he writes like a wailing tyrant, as well).

It is Jimmi's turn to now learn a hard lesson: Unethical behavior due to a strident and overbearing sense of entitlement can, and does, impact other people adversely, and before I am dead this bully bitch is going to learn why state civil service guidelines have rules discouraging nepotism. I'm going to clip some wings, and the near absolute power Jimmi and Erik had, I intend to see that mitigated within NCIL. Am I really capable of tolerating the degradation of my enemies? I do not know, but I've been known to be unmoved by individual collapse on sidewalks. In Patricia Clarkson, that erosion of empathy might translate as dispassionate reticence. As an actress, she absorbs loss and longing within herself, even while the audience reads her like an instruction manual. She serves her scripts with much the same function James' Maria Gostrey serves Strether. The academics have a term for it, slipped my mind many years ago. We see it over and over, The Station Agent, which, interesting as it is, glosses over her ideation as a mother with irreconcilable losses; in Lars and the Real Woman, she's the doctor none of us have, a real humanist sensitive to the dignity of marginal crackpots. In Pieces of April, she is the tyrannical scourge running out of time. Learning to Drive follows these same reasonable, liberal parameters; I do not need to know how it tests the limits of friendship to everyone's satisfaction, but do know what is broken cannot always be fixed by reconciliation.

French Cuisine

"I read your blog,"--Riverside's pork style fairy

I did not goad Jimmi when he actually spoke to me a few days prior. I made an observation to an ever case managed former consumer about my enemy status with the developmental faggot and dying husband, and since I made the observation, I let the potential fight slide. Jimmi is weak, goading him can be amusing, and my balls are going to get me killed, but if he chooses to wade into the disjunctive link between his beliefs, his corruption, and my hatred of ADAPT, he isn't any worse for wear. Insurrectionists haven't yet found the appeal within my interior Joan d'Arc. More to the point, Mr. Shrode refuses to understand that state and federal employment guidelines exist for a reason, and the disability team of my era broke those rules with impunity, destroying my career, and I have to see him and Erik daily. How would you live with something like that? I doubt many of you would find it tolerable.

There is an antipathy to Jean Luc-Bideau with his grandfatherly bulbous nose, and there is also animosity toward Baiot-- the black French actor who in The Churchmen of course has to be a gay seminarian. Bideau has too much of Flaubert's Tostes ruralism about him with that turkey gobble neck of his, and Baiot I've seen around and never liked, too much simper, but other than the jump cut erotic scene between Baiot and the other working class family boy coping with his spiritual calling, I've reluctantly allowed myself to be entangled with WYBE's run of the series, mindful that this is France2's spin on the Vatican, their Pope a bit clueless and modeled on whom, precisely? 


It is a better series about Catholicism than anything produced in the States, as is typically the case, and if I was a God fearing Catholic atheist I'd laugh at the irony. I'm reluctant to go forward with Six Feet Under because of its simulated sexual intimacy between Michael C Hall and a gay black partner, and here comes charging out of Paris, with its aggravating double standards, a second decade series about faith and coitus in the real world, and a gay French African, with impulse control issues, climbing the stairway to heaven The French have had an occasional battle with Italy over the Papacy, so its voice is not to be engaged with too much skepticism in its muted but still relevant battle with Protestant Germany, but this is France, and my patience with sniping remonstrance begins to take its toll. Flaubert, Proust, Dumas, no wonder they hated Dumas, even Stendhal. Simenon too, the rich and heavy cream, over-indulged steady diet, wreaks havoc with the blood sugar.

My Aunt Cecily was more chill about homosexuals in the priesthood, my grandmother's half sister. She enjoyed the impersonal circumspect tone, trying to be the grand lady in the know, except during an episode where my mother had a short-lived relationship with a Jamaican. It was repugnant, simply too much for the old woman. Yours truly was mercifully absent.

If I wind up giving my landlord notice in a fit of hysteria, I cannot rescind it and change my mind out of fear. I can't survive on the street and yet the torsion on my leash is at a breaking point. My stepmother is in a home, and after she married my father she wanted me put away, which ignited the war of the Cinderella's in the family until my sister changed her mind about her loyalties. 

I need to get the fuck out of this building so badly I'm likely to wind up in prison, while my father the bullshit artist will assure me on a monitored line that he'll bail me out in the next couple of weeks.  

Faith is as fragile as our loss of muscle tone.

I am on down time out of weariness more than overages. Next week, with provider forbearance.

Breaking Down Barriers, Right?

"I had to find my half-brother." -- an actor playing Lars Saabye

Did I drive little Benny off twitter, or, like me, was he too busy to manage multiple social media accounts? He in fact bears little resemblance to Stallone and might go for a more suitable comparison, like DiCaprio or Matt Damon. This is a reflection of a writer's skill kid. I am not going to move in your basement with your family now. No one has the funds for renovations, but where you and my father are wrong Benjamin, is to make me feel like a burden about it due to a four limb affectation I never asked for in surviving a dramatic premature birth. Yours was less eventful. Mom had a C-section, had her tubes tied, and I won't embarrass you in public any further about real fathers and shape-shifters, but it would have been better for me to have settled in with you and Dawn and your boys as opposed to sinking where I'm sinking. I am happy to have discovered your account is still active, and that I erred with search. If I had not followed up on that I might have stepped in it further than this: No one wants to be reminded every day of a segregated intake paradigm that burned me in a trade off with illegal nepotism for an LBGTQ couple so disadvantaged that they've launched two state and federal investigations. True, the failed physician is senile after its strokes, and its partner cuts me with lumbering bully umbrage, and instead of eating this daily, with the rest of my baggage, I could have tutored my nephews, negotiated a truce with your wife over fried egg plant. Nothing's perfect, but I would have been with family in a state where people still retain the notion of hospitality. You keep your distance with convenience, and Carlos Watson will now give Jozannyme! a wide berth, never mind his power politics with Gwen Ifill.

One thing I am only so-so with as a journalist is my contacts, and as I mention in Bigfoot, if Nortorious Person X has an unlisted number, for obvious reasons, then how the fuck do I approach the NPX, send a letter? I needed down time last evening, eating the anxiety of absolute defeat, and I only formulated one interview question. The Washington Post is not likely to take the pitch from me due to internecine rivalry, but Carlos and OZY is another matter, and I am watching them with peevishly narrowed eyes, ready to pounce, and hurting. My own family leaves me like a Bush-Gore hanging chad, and I've been turning myself inside out on this account which Blogger wants me to privatize because I endorse insurrection, reductionism, looking for solutions, and I paid a resource site to look for a room mate only to discover how marginalized architecture for the disabled is, in reality, and people can't handle the load I carry here online. I can't go bike-riding in the park. Denny O'Brien's yoga classes might be difficult for me to manage, and all parties involved want me to be rational about an attendant care system that has traumatized me many times over. How fucking wonderful it is to be alive. Jimmi Shrode warned me more than 16 years ago about California liberalism. I've had my rebuff from Jersey's too, because the white child abuse survivor wanted to talk to me, until Courtney queried with, "You know this is a volunteer position?"

Why wouldn't I have known it when I contacted the human preservation foundation? Oh, Rhett spoke what, 15 words to me about a different direction. When the welfare system kills me, you'll care then, I suppose.

Carried, Seize, Outreach

Media promotions aren't always trivial, and on the basis of the fact that she is touting yet another celebrity memoir, the fancy has seized me to pour out some of my anguish in reserved fashion to Mariel Hemingway, a contemporary, eclipsed in the fog of losing my poverty stricken battle in a majority black city. Then the entertainment articles triggered my envious memories of Mariel's beauty, not plastique in the least. Memory: watching Personal Best waiting for something subversive and passionate and never getting a graphic scene. Perhaps it was edited for television, but it was this film which drew my curiosity to homoeroticism, around the same year that Henry James's super-attenuation came to my attention, became a life long fascination, until the nursing aide and her obscene invitation to bring me "in the life." In the life-- that is code, cliched by now, in LBGT speak for the quest for pleasure, but let me not go tearing up the cushions on the divan too deeply just yet. Queer theory draws prurient attention like carrion draws maggots, and my trenchant retraction of equal treatment for sexual orientation is invariably the comfort food of liberal mockery-- but also, I am not satisfied with my plank. I'm not an evangelical, as such, and why should I care what gays do?

I don't, really, and don't focus much on the physical intimacy between my ex-friends. Jimmi is fat and pallid and Erik is a fleshed out version of Dr. Seuss in the morgue. Excellent aversion therapy, let alone me and my lovers, but I send Mariel's publicist a pity-the-cripple email. I know not to expect response and assume I would not receive one, but what if I did? She'd probably post, much as Niall Ferguson did, "I am sorry for your situation," and offer me the usual self-help pep talk, but why the urge to penetrate at all?

Because she and I are the same age, and why not share the misery with a celebrity I came up with, whose impact was more subtle than Jodi Foster's? Still, these compulsions of sentiment annoy me. She's just an actress, made famous in a particular point and time, in a particular way, with an interesting pedigree to an American writer who's oeuvre is basically full of shit. Ernest is a god damn con artist, a melodramatic spin doctor, over the top even in his Fascist Spanish Civil War era. Huff. I'm over a mild panic attack, hoorah.

Jason Statham's Inspiring Disenbodiment

"Mental health will drive you mad." Quiet Riot

Liberals like Paul Krugman would argue, not without some justification, that public housing affords a person of my physical vulnerability more protection than would a private rental, and indeed, when I toured the Presidential Suites between 1992-93, Linda Dezenski referred me to her private contractor for unit modification. He wanted 5k, which for me, or my father, my mother, would have been astronomical at the time, on top of the rent, and if I or the landlord terminated the lease, I would have had to restore the apartment, and although this may sound accusative, I have no idea where Linda thought I could come up with that kind of expenditure. Her department and Staroscik's department were paying me seven dollars an hour as a consultant. My entry level salary at Matrix was an improvement, but I would have needed at least an annual salary of 50,000 to maintain the lifestyle my father provided me as an adolescent, and I would have also needed tenure, which, even if I listened to all the middle class advice, put myself on an autonomic pharmaceutical regimen, would not have been guaranteed. The field was already becoming saturated, and the humanities is soft. Even a successful founding country import like Niall Ferguson buttressed himself as a historian by creating an interesting specialty as it relates to economic policy and development. I could have never hoped for that kind of intellectual magnetism, not easily afforded to women as it is.

But my intelligence still deserves better than this sterile, fatalistic paralysis, the regulatory paradigm designed deliberately not to allow me to keep my assets. I do not want to do my recertification, which will be scheduled soon, not making it easy on myself. I would have approximately six weeks to find persons unknown willing to help me pack, in exchange for what, a tutorial? Six weeks, a storage facility, deciding what to do with the feline children, what temporary shelter I could find, destroying my comfort to decouple myself from the burgeoning industry of plurality poverty in this country. The recession hit many people hard, maybe even those reading this, but my upward mobility ended because I did not have the emotional armor necessary for case management after my accumulation of inner city and suburban poverty progressed against my well being like brain plague and rabies. For such a large country to lose the dynamism of aspiration signals deeper structural flaws, and with my age, I have to trend my expectations downward, but even if Presby staff and PCA deescalate the institutional bias against me, on top of the overt discrimination and abuse, I simply cannot continue in this environment, with Jimmi Shrode's indignation a silent slap in the face with every encounter between us. I no longer know how active his near zombie partner is on Liberty's board of directors, but the two of them, as homosexual militants, like mafia bosses, have pull, and my level of critical dissent against the so called activists, it simply isn't tolerated. Aside from which, I simply cannot return to 714 Market Street. That my conflict with disability intake is so public is, of course, in the present tense, my responsibility, but when I was being humiliated by them, this was not due entirely to my breakdown. Linda put me through my paces with former colleagues, former suburban school mates and neighbors. It is very difficult to live with, and Riverside's tentacles are very much entwined with it. Henry Miller, so slowly digested, has been a bad influence, evidently, as if I could waltz, penniless, from predicament to predicament, without legs to stand on-- though there are sexual fetishes out there which could garner me traffic in the red light district. 

Disaffection

"thank you for following me" a direct message 

Mr. Harris may have forgotten that he was following a nasty a bituminous troll, because he sent yours truly a direct message which asserted that he'd "return the favor," when I decided to let his feed on my stream, an indicator that he may have ignored my links. My synaptic connections aren't what they used to be either; I too struggle with fine print, but I try to visit my twitter page and trim the branches.

I may stop linking my DIA posts so often, however, if the moral majority is going to pressure Blogger to silence me. Where that pressure came from might be nice to know, but I am not going to let it stop me, not that I can fight Google, I know that. This software belongs to the company, and the First Amendment applies to the public square-- but Blogger succeeded in making me angrier, inadvertently, perhaps.

I am, on occasion, chastised by the establishment for lack of relevance, which annoys the holy shit out of me when it comes to social media. I wanted to talk about texts, on Linked In, with those who taught them, but down came the muzzle, "lack of relevance," without me breathing a word about my personal situation. I could not fight back, Linked In couldn't tell me anything, and yet I had to be mortified.

This isn't virtual stigma following real life prejudice? We do not have to thank followers in thousands of automated emails. Think about it. I'll leave my account. I like Medium, and think it's better for us than thousands of writer authors tweeting what we won't read. I like BeaconReader too, and for that I need twitter. 

I'm mean, hurtful, and occasionally vile, but I am also challenging and divergent, and you really need to stop and think about the price people like me are asked to pay. I am in exactly the same room I was when I was punted off Poets & Writers. How many of those authors have moved on, been able to change? I am in exactly the same studio where Linda squealed to me like a pig about her orgasms, and she may have left the disability center, but I am sure the bitch has her mortgage paid off. I know she, and Josie Byzek, whom I've also offered choice words, have online access. Jimmi Shrode, who is afraid of me, may too. Jimmi is afraid of me, instinctively, and he should be, but he can walk, and has what he wants, at least until Erik dies. I'm alone; I'm in pain, and I live in an environment I never wanted to be, and all you fine players can't handle it.

Slay your own Jewish princess

"They weren't really your friends," my ex, who wasn't either.

I held my nose, and offered Alyssa a compliment in the comments thread for her column on streaming distributors and damaged old men who assimilated the upheavals of the sixties. Alyssa even looks the self-depreciating brunette I was in high school, if you take away the cerebral palsy. I try not to read her columns that often. Sometimes I missed the point; sometimes I didn't care, but even she realized that progressive furor should not have felled Amy Pascal. The difference, between Ms Rosenberg's soft-pedaling on the reigns, and my objections?

I do not see where Pascal's exchanges with her co-ceo were insensitive. I did not read the original hacked accounts, but on the basis of media comments, don't see the supposed insensitivity. What I read was a powerful corporate female letting off steam, just like the jokes Linda, as a locally powerful executive, used to send me-- about being a psycho killer. I knew they were jokes, I knew she was letting off steam, and that they were her way of being my friend, much like her confidences about why she was throwing me over, and I asked her to stop sending me these transmissions even though they were popular snark into which she submerged for an outlet. I should have ended this communication long before her bemusement at my expense led to the knife in my back.

But Amy Pascal wasn't betraying anyone, and asserted herself to get where she was, and as citizens, we should be ashamed for ending her career on such a note. I could have put some weight on it, rolled up my sleeves and tried to halt the train, defending her before she resigned.

I'm also willing to tell progressives they are insane motherfuckers, and its perfectly understandable that they get murdered in gay panic scenarios-- the unprintable aggressions (I am fully aware that "motherfucker" is still forbidden in mainstream typeset), and it is this which sets me off against ADAPT demonstrators like Jimmi Shrode. I pulled on him, and I pulled on his transsexual partner. Why did I do that? Because I knew if I stayed at Riverside it would cost me terribly, envelop me, take me out of the mainstream, and I've been right about that, even while admitting that I should have held my pain in, upon realizing the full extent of Linda's treachery. I did not, and let both Jimmi and Erik have it. They're corrupt, and that corruption hurts innocent people, and it is this silence of liberal disabled LBGT activists which throws me into a frenzy: Your utter inability to be accountable. Jimmi is still cognizant enough to know that he broke the law to accept that job at the disability center, and refuses to even concede that states have non-profit guidelines for a reason; his activism has no room for my non-compliance; I am cut out, like a cancer, ignored, even to the degree that other wheelchair users talking to me, upon greeting him, get ignored, and this too, is insane, not advocacy.

The good gay doctor of The Constant Gardner may not have deserved to have his balls shoved down his throat with such gruesome revelation, but this is the kind of reactions humans have when compliance models insist that discrimination is meaningless. It is nearly midnight. I am strolling out to the 7-11.

The standards of Sierra Leone

This is undoubtedly a bogus account, either malicious or not adept enough at evading social media security apparatus, another bad link which I clicked,and I followed it first, and remember doing so, motive unfathomable, fighting my major recurrent depression. Reconciliation with Stephanie, my sister, is moot. I lashed out at her in poor form in 2007 during the nearly lethal building renovations imposed on every Riverside Presbyterian resident at Erik and Jimmi's insistence. Residents perished during this event, and my mental health hit a dead end. I screamed at Stephanie and called her a cunt in front of Frankie and it was an unforgivable breach of conduct, regardless of her narcissism. I've never gotten past it, but Stephanie and myself will never sheath our weapons of destruction. She wants me to accept that I need to depend on racist West African emigrants for my care who treat me with Francophile ingrained disgust. "Try to control it," in her heavily accented English. She meant my incontinence, and was gone in about three days, did next to nothing toward my personal care, and this is why I'm criminalized, because it will repeat itself over and over until I am forced back into a nursing home facility. Mary, mother's sister, would not succeed in such a forced interpersonal relation with the poorest Africans on the planet, and neither would Stephanie, for that matter, but I have to, because I can't meet ambulatory standards, and feel like telling Mary, who I watched discard beau after beau until she and Tom lip smacked on the couch, babysitting monkey freak niece in football helmet, to fuck her damn birthday card, and again, shatter familial standards, but I am not going to tell my Catholic educational leader aunt to fuck her damn birthday card.

Karina did much better than the emigre from Sierra Leone, but my unit was not so saturated with the saluatory urine infused nicotine wafts. by the time I found the Christian blondee. Karina is not a godsend, however, and I am pulling on her with suicidal agony pleading for regress, which is unfair to the woman. Her mother is dying and Karina doesn't pull on me with suicidal regress. All I really want is her mobility, the utilization of her car to get the fuck out of this building, and to what extent this is going to happen remains unclear, and my Russian viewers probably weigh my utility as a cyber target, out to hurt me in the amusements with lifelong worthlessness. Do we all enjoy Google's birthday greetings?

I am not against accessible architecture, but what Jimmi and Erik forced HUD to do with this building was the most inefficient and hellish interface of federal and municipal procedure, breeding more corruption like maggots.

Plummet

"I had stopped petitioning the heavens for miracles four days before."-- Sheri Booker

Even in 2009, during my brief electronic correspondence, or conservation, with Daniel Schneider, his offer of a byline in Cosmoetica would have been a downgrade. I had already appeared in nearly a hundred literary journals. Even with my CV, I've lost count of my bylines, for everything, articles, poetry. In this sense, my long nine month stint at Examiner hurt me too. After getting in legacy media, chasing tail aggregating for peanuts kept me fluid, but hurt me professionally. Perhaps constancy reflected a certain uneasiness. Getting buried in endless repetition of stringer scoops is nothing, and it is the same with Dan's writing. Good for a student, but at some point, exposure is meaningless if all we do is skim. Penetrating the value market will not help me much unless I can build something sustainable from any future bylines, and get work I can handle.

The flap over Erdely's lax dependence on her primary source, which seems to involve more than a hint of buyer's remorse (collegiate age girls may want to rethink promiscuity?) and the much more disturbing crisis with Hughes and TNR, suggest that the lightning speed of reactivism is a continuing problem, and that we're fast losing nuances in contemplation, which at the very least, The New Republic offered as a glossy, whether or not you were a supporter. I appreciated the fascinating insights into a composer like Stravinsky even if I never invested in learning classical music, and I suspect the insulation needed for that is difficult to accrue through surfing a synopsis-- it points to my level of indifference over the death of Michael Brown and Eric Garner, which is as cold as you like. Not that cops aren't a favorite target of beat reporters for a reason. Police do criminal things, sometimes rape hoes as well, but protesters develop tunnel vision, and I've turned myself blue in the face attempting to expose what I have acquired, empirically, through so called disability activism. My antagonism toward individuals like Jimmi Shrode and Erik and Josie, and the catastrophic knife in my back from Linda and our disability center, is as much about their hypocrisy as it is the ossified sterility of the paradigm. Jimmi is all about transitioning the helpless, decentralizing them. Accepting my emotional injury because he used his personal relationship with Erik to take advantage in an federalized system which demands impartiality, this he cannot do, and thus I'm persona non grata.

It will happen among these progressives of conscience with their sit ins. Darren Wilson did not set out to murder Brown. He was doing his job on patrol, and the NYPD did not intend to kill Garner in public. They were subduing a man placed under arrest. To use Erik's phrase, "shit happens," like the climate change which we're all on the doomsday machine to repair. We may not be able to repair it, and if we traded off civil liberties for the sake of security after 9/11, what about our food sources in a hundred years if global warming becomes a calamity? Take a step back. We are not all equal in value, and never will be.

Plight of Placenta Detachment

This type of venue is about producing the product and sales data. I am more interested in the analytics which might still pay me for a well produced piece. Daniel Schneider tried to encourage me in this direction even as thinking about that first contact causes me to shrivel into a little ball, but search my archives. I don't need to remind myself all of the time-- and I cannot really say what Dan was guilty of that set me off. Sigh. I just don't work well in online groups, certainly not with a B actor trying to be charitable-- but with that episode I was stupid, and realize it. Had I just bit my tongue and faked a certain wide eye respect, played sweet little passive cripple, Dan Schneider and wifey might have been of use. Recognize him? He reached out to me in 2009, and now I BEAR THE MARK OF SHAME. Meaning the fact that he was obnoxious was not worth getting emotionally distraught, which I did.

Spilled milk and all that, but this was self inflicted. It is difficult for me, Jimmi Shrode ignoring me with his righteous indignation, and I nearly threatened him coming home from the store; the partner of the dying Erik, Jimmi, growing a beard now, the new in thing among infantile homo boys, not that Jimmi doesn't have the right to cut me, I am simply telling you I cannot take it anymore, and Linda should have paid a steeper penalty for sowing so much discord: Jimmi and Erik are Riverside's extraordinary tenants with a great deal of power, and understandably like the relative stability of the building. I hated this place from day one, and having powerful, if ailing, activists as secondary enemies because Linda used me like a pawn makes it worse, on top of the other salient details I have given you about the duress of living under so much hostility as a disabled woman.

I am tired people, worn out, and getting arrested for attempting a hate crime, one way to shorten a life span; my family is of little use. Basically none of them respect my judgment, and Stephanie and I have inflicted too much mutual damage, my sister. She and I will talk when necessary, but she sees my old age as her legal burden after our father's death, and I'd sooner gouge her eyes out, if you'd like my power of attorney, not to give unscrupulous Russians a hard on. I mean I've given up on the idea of returning to Ridley Park, which, despite the secret domestic violence, was my best youthful idyll. I can no longer pretend to go home again, but, by the same token, the longer I stay at Riverside, the higher my chances that I wind up on Sullivan's Dish as a sensational impulse spree of some sort. You cannot win with the likes of Jimmi and Erik, even if you score a few points on the board. Militant gays are like Islamists in this regard, and Erik is not the type of sensible transvestite who debates DOMA on PBS. Even insiders in IL consider Jimmi and Erik to be overtly fanatical. I need to stop seeing what they are. I need to wash my hands and keep myself as equi-distant from homosexual culture as possible. Linda's caviler machinations destroyed my health, ability to rebound, and created hostile circumstances from which it is difficult to extract myself, or find alternatives.

I'm wearing out. 

Forest Gump

When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. => His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving.-- Evelyn Waugh, A Handful of Dust

Sensible people need to cease offering me sensible advice, like the office receptionist telling me I should be grateful for having a place to live, or a Linked In teacher going on in IM with beatitudes. Don't insult people. I mocked him by insinuating that I'm more sinister than I am. He did not get it and suggested I write a poem. Linked In earned my nearly instantaneous derision for this, and its threads. Fuck Lyneshia and her gratitude. Fuck people telling me to let the cruelty of Liberty go, or to stay positive. People who tell me this have traveled, had their careers.

What I face, with a near inability to reverse it, is statutory punishment for failure, on the basis of having done nothing wrong except fleeing Widener University and trying to succeed on my own terms. I've watched Erik the unethical transvestite transform from a facetious shyster into a living mummy, literally, one who thinks he's helping me after he skirted embezzlement charges and put his homosexual arrested development lover ahead in the game because the two of them are so low on the totem pole they're entitled to elbow straight arrows like me into a sewer.

I am tired of hearing it. Forgiveness. Do you know what happens to people like me without any financial security? A nigger on the down low pawing at me eight years ago is just the tip of the ice berg in comparison to what bed ridden dependence has in store when I am over sixty. I really don't see why I shouldn't utilize some criminality for some justice on my own. Robert Durst seems to have escaped with coveted privilege into a rabbit hole. All Good Things is a well made suspense tale, but what it leaves behind is bafflement. Why was all of this necessary? What triggered so much distress? 

Call It Sleep

Susan Hayward would die from a brain tumor twelve years after doing Stolen Hours, a remake that contributes very little to the conversation between the melodrama of mortality and the banality of turning cadaver. Party girl more than actress, yet one projection Hayward carries through is the vivacious defiance of will in the face of the insurmountable, never inhabiting her characters so much as flinging her impertinence at her audience, the 63 film is a cheap sham, a meager Kennedyesque decollage that follows the Davis model with unnecessary religiosity, indicative of the fact that we're impatient with video of medical model treatment and remission, cleaning up after chemotherapy vomit, or knowing everything, like Lance Armstrong, the disgraced paragon, or knowing nothing, or knowing what physicians think the pathology indicates.

We all decline, a word I got from my follower, Edward, when I met him in the community room for coffee. He was casual about the fact that Trudy Richardson sent up an assessment team to my unit at a most vulnerable moment, with Debra Horne and I threatening each other, the entire building knowing about it within minutes. I was not *declining* in 2007. The entire system imploded over my head. Keystone Mercy had dropped me as a carrier because I was Medicaid ineligible. The Liberty Resources case manager cannot handle anything not compliant with Medicaid spend down. The only resource I had was my mother's brother, an executive at a medical equipment carrier, but I had to pay him.

The renovations that Erik von Schmettering and Jimmi Shrode, as a piteous LBGT couple and zealous advocates, foisted upon Presbyterian Homes, traumatized me, as did the mixed race nursing aid who hit on me two years earlier. She would have probably told the police she was just attempting to console me rather than putting me in an episode of Orange is the New Black, but I am cognizant of what a lesbian move is, tried to force myself to an orgasm after the sense of violation, couldn't climax, and let a trigger move me to my always incessant tears, periodic and overwhelming. I rarely masturbate on any masochistic submission fantasy anymore. A healthy sexual relationship is a bad romance-- or Hayward's mature coitus with her strong men imagined off screen. She never transforms, Hayward, whatever her role, or her age, she is the noble pioneer female, taking a punch like a brass tack, dying hard, sometimes with irony.

Now I am declining, but what I cannot accept is that I've been forced to eat rust my entire life, brutal youthful surgeries which improved nothing and maybe I did not need, and that one other strong woman with cerebral palsy humiliated me beyond my ability to recover, after lifelong threats to my survival, the erosion of my dignity. I want them dead, the prominent members of ADAPT I came up with, because the paradigm needs to change, and no one is lifting a finger. Jimmi talks on his cell in his thick footed sandals and ignores me, this fearsome advocate who is as progressive for broken bodies as the holy grail, but sniggers at everyone, with Erik, behind their backs. A transvestite and his fat homosexual partner know the truth, and individuals like me, those who thought we could make a rewarding life, career, are fools. This is what their advocacy and activism, willingness to engage in fraud, amount to, and it is why gay marriage advocates, and more prominent progressives, are fooling themselves with the persuasive arguments posited under the equal protection clause.

Mainstream conservatives have given this up, and even I see it is inevitable, but what stems forth from it will invariably lead to more complications, and I'll be declining, dribbling with incontinence, getting a pressure sore dressed. I'd rather be a terrorist, even a suicide tourist, going blind in my last moments, fade to black.

I Wake Up Screaming

"I wanted to be like the Europeans."--Orhan Pamuk, location 1856

Seasonal allergies and my father's sinuses is also a contingency not planned for, the grease ball's throbbing head with my mother's nerves, her father's intestinal issues rolled into a palsied post 50 flesh, waking itself at 4 in the morning to watch Grable and Mature conduct their insider studio celebrity jokes with perv kisses and stocking feet, titillating beef shots, watching Laird Cregar (who I never heard of) do a formulaic twist as a stalker, obsessive worshiper.

Hovering between my tormented genius, over-educated competency and decomposition, even online, the mental health consumer, for those of you with a Linked In account, laser in on me. They know it would not take much to leave me adrift and stranded as they are themselves, or have an intuitive antenna attuned to vulnerability, as Sheldon Novick knows, and Sarah too, the graduate intern of years past, I harbor a degree of guilt over certain cases of undeserved outbursts, not meant in all cases to intimidate. (I never truly had an axe to grind with Henry James aficionados, which isn't to allege that I am not in *Hallmark Mandy's* sandpit, that of recrimination in being argumentative.)

He is literally incomprehensible, however, worth dropping or making fun of, another argument against radical equality, even as I adopt a new online mentee whose skills are sharp, who probably doesn't realize he should tell me to go fuck myself and report me to the NAACP. My smile is bemused, my psyche not necessarily seeking reconciliation with the hatreds  of learned experience and an affection for the energy, empathy, of the young and up and coming. Even though he wasn't the primary actor in the illegality of Liberty Resources against me, I truly hate Jimmi Shrode, his sissy and shrill voice of disdain, his ugly and gluttonous homosexuality, the black lacquer on his hand bitten fingernails, his occasional use of green eye shadow even more repugnant, the depth of a hatred that is such that it goes too far and would abate if I could leave Riverside. Other than closing my disability center down because of its corruption and institutional bias, the very last thing I want in my life is to vacate these premises without making my predicament more the worse, and I'm at a loss even though I have threatened the parent company.

Legal action against Presby is no guarantee that I can preserve my last years with dignity.

Eschatological Targets

"I wouldn't know where to find such people." Tom Wilkinson.

When Howard Stern had syndication currency, simulcast from his New York station to WYSP, he claimed, in less than scintillating fashion, that black authors wrote to capitalize on the white guilt market, and I probably believe that about Morrison's work, though I am not entirely certain about Beloved in particular, like a snake in the grass, choking on marshmallow. Did she write it for the chimera of canonization? For herself? For a paucity of comparison to the estimated 4 million lives taken in the division of the Korean peninsula?

We read fictional narratives for many reasons, the most prevalent being an enjoyment of satire, or the need to escape ourselves. What Morrison has provoked in me is guilt, guilt not for her characters, some so abused, so wretched, that they snap into a madness, pleasure and horror intermingled, but guilt in my own identification with her bleak exposition. There is nothing wrong with softening the toughness in her courageousness in being explicit, as she does in Beloved. It has the standard ironical undercurrents, humorous interludes, comparisons to Salman Rushdie's ending of The Satanic Verses, descending into the escape hatch of schizophrenia, but the hymnal wail of Morrison's communal voice of expiation was too overly lavish. It led to a regurgitation of my sympathies. This doesn't mean I resent Toni the way I resent Oprah's rise as America's shadow empress, but a cop out is still a cop out, though it would be too much to feel the grand dame implicitly modulated her tone for a Danny Glover/Winfrey deal.

I do not know the truth about myself anymore. Jimmi Shrode cut me socially first because I was having an emotional breakdown over what Linda did to me. He had been my friend (supposedly), but refused to understand what he and Erik von Schmetterling did was wrong, and placed honest applicants at a disadvantage. Since Philadelphia ADAPT, as a whole, cannot rectify its moral turpitude, I cannot reengage the group. I have absolutely no intimacy in my life, not a soul to speak to who cares about me. Think about that, how hard it has been for me while Linda still buses into work, has her social extensions and a paycheck, and I can't leave the building where so many of her consumers still traffic in and out of her domain. Both the staff who knew me and the staff who didn't say "I transferred your case file." Why don't we close your case file?

Are you that relegated? 

Iron Necessities

Let me hit the pause button. You might infer from Carcano that I'm a duplicitous schemer, but that isn't quite the case. Political aides who work for my state representatives advised me not to place a classified on Craigslist, and after trying cleaning businesses which weren't suitable, using Craigs was a last resort which worried me. I am not infallible, and I daresay I do function savant at times, so I was scared. The Web is a pornography shallow troll riddled junkyard to which I'm contributing like catacomb of ghoulish delight, and the new guy got the job because the other interviewee I telephoned without the appropriate judgment at first glance. That takes patience. 

I did not know he was gay, but I know the terrain, and in terms of what I might have gotten, feeling that I could be safe, this counted. The safety factor won, in essence, despite the fact my hostility toward homosexuality radicalized equality is genuine. And it was, in fact, extremely difficult to be civil to Erik in front of s/his brother "in the life". The flesh fair freak happened to be on the pavement outside the vestibule when I introduced J-- to the building. My show of civility vanished when my new assistant headed home. Erik and Jimmi are a significant factor in my need to get off this corner. Dealing with the two of them feels like rust eroding my esophagus. I'd enjoy beating them into a pulp.

Erik von Schmetterling did not know I was pleading with Linda Dezenski as a last resort to avoid calamity those years ago, but that doesn't absolve him. They don't like each other that much, Linda and the regional shim, and Erik is in fact a sick bangle of nerves on its last legs. I hate the two of them equally for being corrupt and necessarily vicious when it suits them. The bitter transvestite failed intern and the gloating Jewess I transformed into an icon with her own hagiography. Back biters, allies by necessity.

We'll see how it works. J-- is nice. I selected him on my own terms without imposition from regulatory authority. He is better looking than Alan Gordon, and I am not going to see him daily unless I surrender to Medicaid waiver and he wants that position. My social fear is not ignited and we aren't going to swap sexual escapades and stories.