Pulmonary Ides Within Indications of Tardive Dyskinesia

"I want to thank TMZ for not trying to find me in the hospital."-- Whoopi Goldberg, snatched from the jaws

Sitting here trying to relax, difficult as that is when I cannot restore my rhythms as a writer, deescalating at dinner prepared too early, reading Kevin Baker in Harper’s Magazine, the January 19 issue. Just as with The Atlantic, it is unlikely that a woman with cerebral palsy, one who believed ambition would allow success, can ever penetrate this monthly periodical, not that I’m ready just yet. Though I may be slightly more sympathetic to his April hue and cry about New York rental costs, his January essay "The Crisis of the Constitution" is another piss and moan about the electoral college.

Since I first gained access to the hard intellectual left of Lawrence Lessig, I too have been reading college backlash articles since Bush v. Gore, and it becomes nullifying to constantly read about majority rights being subverted, particularly as it is sympathized by my friend Robert Thomas in his posted link material, when it has only occurred in American electoral history five times, once in 1888, twenty four years after the 13th Amendment to the Constitution passed in the aftermath of Civil War. Baker tries utilizing Hamilton's alarm over electors in Article 63 of The Federalist papers, but representative government will always be a flawed vehicle. I do not care how open a politician is, even the Democratic Socialist Ocasio-Cortez, there is a disjunction between elected official and voter. For my money, which in the present tense no longer exists, the more disconnects there are between voters and office holders, the better it is.

That isn't set in stone. Clinton was a Rhodes Scholar hillbilly, via Ed Rendell.

— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) March 12, 2019

Do I miss long form articles such that Harper's provides? Yes. Can I still construct them with my near insurmountable physiological pressures? I do not refer simply to *adult diapers*, as between my family and the socialized medicine which makes me desirous of raking my fingernails across Paul Krugman's face in hopes of leaving a permanent hairline scar of fury, I have lost just a little too much self-determination. Making my own coffee, incidental details such as these. Even if one day, I can still compete, and the above thread with Douthat's readers is proof enough that the malfeasance in my urban life has been fundamentally unfair to my economic security, the validation comes too late for me to be the one, the spastic who could have been important, though some of Sanders' factory saints suggest I certainly carry myself that way, and so I should.

Polar Night

"How was your Thanksgiving?"-- my former client Joe, who endorses Wheelchair Taxi

The implication by the radical left that the electors are proactive agents is not borne out by the historical evidence. The 20 electors disputed in the Hayes Tilden battle also resulted in protracted litigation, legislative action. I do no see, as Lessig, or Parker does, a College which actively thwarted a popular vote winner. Bush v Gore simply declared the Florida recount unconstitutional, and with a dwindling set of options, Gore finally conceded in 2000, unfortunately, as the 43 president was a disaster. Just because spastic grows reactive, this does not mean she is a lock step Republican. At heart, she is a terrorist, willing to sow destruction on corrupt human methodologies, but much as Doris Lessing explores in her strange, but real world novel, The Good Terrorist, spastic has an honor code, and a cruel minority manager may deserve what she gets, and section 202 tenants are the residual business of poverty, but the young computer engineering geniuses over 20 are useful to the generations beyond the boomers. I am not sure why my road runner failed reply to Lessig is important to me, but I agree with Fee it needs a fix, and maybe I should turn it into a longer back essay. The left is simply wrong, like the very fact of housing classifications. Section 202. Section 3. Section 811. Our societies learn nothing from the masters, those who have seen the nightmare of collective systems.

Despite missing the first two of the last four episodes of Dead Like Me, it is over, thank goodness. Spastic is free of Vancouver pedestrian gentility. My Comet affiliate is still running the series, and I may review and refresh, but I am off the leash. This may not sound like enthusiasm, but my favorite segments were Callum Blue and the old woman who collapsed with her sugar bowel, and Laura Harris in her Catholic inducements arc. A real Catholic priest, if entering the gateway to reunification with the divine, would not say, "I am as curious as you are Daisy." This is a generic writer's evasion. None of us know anything, but at least a popular horrorist like Anne Rice applied her beliefs about the afterlife in some of her works.

I confirmed to the local libertarians that I will attend their party at Gunner's Run, and I'd like very much to attend, but my budget is scraping the lard barrel, so as of this morning, I'm waffling, and entering a danger stress zone-- first winter storm approaching and I've little funds to stockpile even the basic grains available to the poor. I have a small window, but not much, to make up my mind. I also never meant to imply that local libertarians have to bond with me, it is simply that I have no people in my orbit who please me, who I enjoy, and Black Adder's regulars, and visiting graduates, are the best I can do, even if my obvious depression is an insulator. 

Hyper- vigilance with Lobster Bisque

"She went after everybody," my dead ex-fiance on why Trudy Richardson's predecessor, Brenda Williams, was terminated.

Once a nervous breakdown occurs, however mild it might have been in comparison to that of maternal progenitors, the threat of an escalating relapse is always present, the anxieties of post traumatic stresses more prevalent, the war between pragmaticism and the platform for your byline a harder struggle, as I tossed my Lessig rebuttal, as a speculative all nighter, to Brian Doherty of Reason when I actually had another pitch for him, and the dead bloodhound olfactory nerve linked to my ego is saying leave him alone. At least for a few months. On the other hand-- there is always the other hand, even if one wants a libertarian flag to flutter over virtual skeletal fracture, my bones snapping in creative destruction, my younger sister yelling at me when I said civilly that I know she'd put me away, time permitting, when the time comes; but we did not fight. I simply told her my writing ability was losing to anxiety, and if I was ever to in fact go senile she needed to tell me.
"Get out more."
With what? The LOTR meet up tolerates me, but none of its members reach out, and while the peripatetic Karina does reach out (maybe she needs an elder female figure too spastic, ever think of that?), the failed private care giver and the troll are on different tranches.  Karina isn't a peer, and I really have nothing to talk with her about.  Extremes of destitution take their toll on the calcium of bone which has passed the half century mark. The disabled community which follows me online cannot really help me, even if I embraced them more readily, which I do not. Where I am not cruel outright, I am either otherwise cold, or cool, although this particular slice of my audience can take pleasure in the fact that I've taken 20 lashes from think tanks I believe I have a divine right to penetrate. Snorts at self. Get up, keep fighting. I had an argument in my head about why I abandoned My Disability Matters. He and I messaged each other about prospective job proposals, and as usual, the end result was a significantly lower level of expectation. "The site is up, maybe you can write about it." Thanks Dale I know you're blind and have a much more positive attitude, but no thanks. It is analogous to fake news and false hopes.

In relation to the left's latch onto the newest evil, that of digital propaganda, Foucault has a point when he raises his voice about genealogy records being a more trustworthy metric over narratives. Take Gwen Ifill's death. PBS inflated Ifill's video eulogy out of proportion; the Newshour, one of the first pre-cable news shows to air the Watergate hearings, spent an entire week giving Gwen a memorial. It may not have been a concoction, like the pizzeria, secret den of iniquity, but it was a lot of inflated padding, less so in print. Her obituary wasn't truly news, not under the rubric of the right to know. It was an accolade, meaning, in essence, that much media filler is a take, a perspective, basically unnecessary, diluted already by television technology; now it collapses under automation. I'm still enough of a journalist to know how to check my facts, how to investigate and confirm. A public which cannot do the same cannot simply paint Russian hackers as the new red devil. 

Inclusion Paves Stairwells to Hell with Best intentions

"I don't know Stacey." Nate Maingard, fantasy abandoner

Karina Klaus, that is her full name, likes to surprise me, but in elongated chucks. I cannot remember when the fuck I hired her, in desperation. It is in here though, my bloody archives, trying to sustain my Trujillo - like self pity. Wiki's pic is not the man Llosa painted in my head, yet I cannot explicate the difference between the actual despot and Llosa's rapacious appropriation. I worked all night, shopped yesterday a living troll in the spastic flesh, and Karina telephones me, out of the goddamn blue, and I panicked. Nate Maingard, my love, twitter (my hate) Is she reading my posts? I said none of this, told her a parable, texted her about my thirtysomething self reliance. "You're my friend," she said. Yeah, all the way from Eugene Oregon. I can surmise Portland went for Clinton.

She's my friend, Karina, from Craigslist. Get real spastic, the ambulatory world expects you to know your place, accept you can't care for yourself, be nice to Pennsylvania's welfare. That kind of friendship, an itinerant passing, a ricochet of failed consideration. I previously wrote she suggested she and I could live together and she retracted just as quickly. I'm that type of quadriplegic. None of you can handle it, only nigger trash for wages not worth the price. There are worse. My dead ex-, Frank, who was probably correct that this chick is drug suey. I worked all night, to what end? Lessig treated me like a real journalist. I think, or faulty adversary.

She is still with the bum over 50 (for the puzzled, it is buried in my tweets). I recently gave Danita Berg a hard time, and I am thinking of writing a piece about it, my pugilistic stance with the left. She runs a damn literary website for fairies, she isn't a trauma specialist, but I laid into her inappropriately similar, but not exactly the same, as what I did to Stacey, Nate's co-patriot. I never supposed the recording artist knew the hapless engineer. If I really let myself go-- well, I am. In public housing, section 811 or 202, recertification is mandatory. I'm not doing it this year, so nigger Trudy gets what she wants. I either find a solution, or I'll be muzzled by August. The stream will go on, with or without us.
Spooky.