If I threaten the technician who did the hard drive extraction that isn't going to get me very far, but I'm going to have to call him about debugging, and either or sit here most of this morning trying to convert my files. I cannot rebuild my publication history from scratch and expect it not to cost me, as it did moving from Diamond Park to Riverside, as it did with each subsequent computer failure and upgrade; for the time being, my credit card company sailed in, doubling my limit, but this is scant comfort if my accomplishments for the last five years are simply erased. Fault it as you may, but writing has had to become my life. There is nothing else. The deceased Frank Versanti, (or Versante) claimed he was in love with me after he proposed, in monosyllabic fashion, but my interpretation of his enthusiasm was his lewdness was victorious, something which repulsed me, the gluttony written all over his face. His lust to have my asymmetrical breasts to grope wasn't my idea of healthy desire between two middle aged people settling for each other. As much as I tried to go through with it twelve years ago, I couldn't, at 42 to 43, settle for an ape, even if I never quite rescinded my claim on his obligation to me; hence, you'd figure, since I am so emotionally fragile, that I'd be on Amber's side over that of Woods, a fading personality who would take one look at me and imitate the nascent verbal losses of John Irving's Reagan era characters:
Instead, I am with the hot headed old man, even rather sympathetic to his usurpation of youthful women. Lauren Southern isn't wrong, after all. The girl inside of us recognizes the snake in the grass. We even like it. My newfound appreciation of James and his caustic bitr is not the flush of a fan many times removed. He is a known quantity, whether or not my warped body could please him sexually. It is merely a clinical question. Could I satisfy a seventy year old man whose name would elevate my stature? I have no idea, but Woods is worth settling for, not an illiterate spic from the Bronx. As a technical matter, since I can now write, offline, though be it from scratch, for the moment, I am less fragile than before, but intend to be dead before the Commonwealth forces me into this fortress, despite the gooey social media policy on suicidal outcry. My whole life has amounted to failing against the grip of regimentation on my throat. I know what well balanced libertarians would say: stop feeling sorry, train yourself to keep the appropriate distance from nursing aide swine. Recognize you cannot cure your pain. Okay, but what do you know of 33 years of case management, aggressive senility, housing authority drywall?
"Knowledge has replaced faith." --Kathy Baker, holding the fort
Having taken a look at Patreon, it is not a suitable venue for me. If they think a Canadian like Southern will get people killed, my beliefs about violence as an argument would shock them. Yes, I played nice, on the main, however stark some of my sentiments, on Niume, and the English left allowed me to vent, mildly, but Niume's staff seem to eat pastoral ecology like smores. However decorative its web interface, it genuinely isn't a collective for me, and Virily isn't a community for angry disabled Americans with anarchist streaks. I haven't given up on Virily, and they seem a little sharper than Niume, but my writing for Baltic states mimicking the west, methinks, must necessarily be limited. I was also mistaken about Due, and while not judging them, I am not entirely sure what they believe they can do for me. Note to Due: I live on a very limited disability entitlement, like many in Japan, most of the Southern Hemisphere, etcetera, and wading through LinkedIn millennials trying to find some work I can do again in limited fashion has proven futile. You seem to be a consumer award venue of some kind of which I am not entirely clear, but I'll give it time. What this means is I don't know how to divorce myself from Blogger. Wordpress would boot me in record time, from what I've gathered over the years, and I'm not quite hyperbolic enough, in IS fashion, for the dark net, even if the dark net twitter account -- the one I'm thinking of, could teach me how to do all those server bounces, and this would be the case even on days of stressed expletives. This said, if Southern and I had a hypothetical fight, I'd plow her in on the inside of five minutes, so I cannot see why Patreon had a panic attack. I am not trying to personalize anything, just to caution readers. I never heard of her before Scoop, and she seems a possible ally; nor was I spurious about riding her comet tail for a profile, I am only saying I can knock the ambulatory world on its myopic ass with neither regrets nor second thoughts. The Damore saga has whet my interest, intensely, but I cannot capitalize on it just yet. The so called "screed" obtained by Gizmodo seemed a relatively innocuous, drippy skim. I think we need to sit down and reconsider what we're doing with computer technologies.
