Surreptitius rapere, Josh Barro

"I'm uncomfortable being on a soapbox," Gwen Ifill, after publishing her book about President Obama.

You look fairly personable and presentable to me Josh Barro, and I for one, do not have time to send hate mail, as a disabled woman who cannot eschew the obvious nature of her spastic-star-spangled banner flexed ligaments, which twist and contort in such interesting ways. Flambeaux I may be, but my social fears aren't so ingrained that I join in on mob assaults. I do not hate you, but a number of lesbians have earned my ire, and I'm weary of butch hits, and I have to stand against LBGT subversion of accepted methods of pair bonding, despite my education and significant voyeurism into indulgent sexual pleasures, relative to where those activities fit on affirmative and/or masochistic scales.

My parents allowed surgeons to butcher me at a young age, abandoned me, divorced, my mother moving in with her duplicitous lesbian neighbor who hit on her, my suffering mother. Whether this was before or after my womb carrier's third suicide attempt, can't say. All that would not have been so bad, but you see, for a cripple, it never stops. You think your orientation provides an impetus for terror, do you?

Guess again.

I do not feel like recounting the strenuous psychological wounds of my past in full. A little worn out hustling for my charming penny ante aggregate, having to work three times as hard as you for pot luck, since that is the draw, brother, between ambulatory function which you have, and quadriplegia predation and rejection, which I have to live.

I have known many homosexuals. Let me give you my list, aggregate it all here:
1. Kathy-- my bipolar mother's would be lover, who used to touch my crotch with an appetite in her ruddy face, before she decided to come out, in her merry widow weeds, co-opting a relative of her husband's; her daughter died of cancer, but they became estranged. I hate her for corrupting the sanctity of my already difficult childhood.

2. Alan from college-- he sought me out. I pulled on him, cried often in his company and he took it. I can't hate him quite, since I leaned on him out of cowardice, but homily people on both sides of the isle should know when to quit. Seeing each other naked and stoned was a sexual deterrent. My undying gratitude to drug induced lethargy.

3. My editor Alexandra, whose reticence was shield and sword. Let's categorize this peevish puritanical association an interesting exchange of mutual blindsiding that still managed to score me while she was dying of breast cancer.

4. Fern Markowitz, the Jewish lesbian boss of my Jewish supervisor. What they did to me consumes about 40 posts of partial detail. Ditto Erik von Schmettering, a crippled transvestite who is also a challenge to your groomed portrait. Ditto Jimmi Shrode, his fat partner. Ditto my former co-worker Jim, whose mild senility made him incompetent. His lover had full blown AIDS, and I hope someone had the sense to use the crematorium if they deceased.

This takes us to Josie Byzek, former editor who lashed out at my last male cyber interest.

What you do not discuss in your column about Robertson's supposedly vile intolerance, is the difference between Semitic moralism and modern Gnosticism-- where god as love is essentially meaningless.

And no one discusses the sneak attack of homosexual passes. Something I have had to tolerate repeatedly from disabled lesbians, mixed race nursing aides in the closet. Never mind repeated sexual and criminal assaults I've sustained. My tolerance meter, Josh, my struggle to survive, is well into negative numbers. You would not dare respond to me, but if you did, "I'm sorry for your situation," really wouldn't cut it. I was always part and parcel of corporate patronizing; tokenism, in fact. 

Insidership? That's a treat tossed at me through the bars of my cage.

Mayonnaise treatments, Josh Barro finesse

It is a mild winter afternoon for a Christmas week Friday, small pleasure denied, spontaneous desire to join the joggers on the Schuykill River path. Neither chair is charged enough for my shimmy hour plus half dressing to go nowhere, lacking destination. The lack of spontaneity is the downer of mobility impairment, to on top of that have to deal with people like Debra Horne, a life long battle with vocational rehabilitation case management. VR is the repository of the most hated modality wheelchair users have to negotiate, and Jimmy Devane was nearly Debra Horne's replica during my very early post-high school years. I do not just hate her, with the woolly mammoth mindset for which PresbyHomes no doubt hired her. The antagonism, which puts it mildly, has a long memory.

Devane did receive the petite version of the 03 Hulk. Stricture, implosion, pretending that I am pushing back against Barro, not necessarily due to the pain and mechanics of anal sex. Most aspects of sexual activity have a certain incongruity, more often than not comic, like the urgency of Theron's ardor turned on to Ricci during the skating courtship; perhaps this was Jenkins' strategy, to display these hard women fondling moments as laughable, reductive as opposed to binding.

No Josh, I may not always do my best to penetrate collective projection in my criticism of various contra-indicators, but, just as an effeminate mimetic may be an evolutionary mechanism to curb aggression, the triggers that provoke hostility to it may equally be related to the perception of self-preservation. I'm sympathetic to Robertson only to the degree that progressives like yourself want to erase history, which conversely paves the way for worse extremes. I know.

Much of what I am posting with Blogger's adult flag banner cannot be written this way in any media, even aggregates, and though I am not paying a price now to own it, I may in the future-- the only caveat to that being I am too weak now, on average, to return to a 40, 45k salary, which is where I reasonably saw myself by now, with an IRA.

I am leaving my country one hell of a finger, opening those seams where the larvae wriggle, ghostly plump protein bodies. Happy New Year