The wounded gunman, {sic} Gary Atkins, looked at one of his hostages, MaryLinda Moss, and told her it was all over for him.-- Robin Abcarian
Robin's feature is a nicely balanced human interest story, taking aim at American excesses all around, whatever conspiracy theories are still plaguing our fourth largest metropolitan newspaper in their post-Tronc aftermath. SWAT teams invariably escalate tensions, however pristine they appear in television serials, the villain didn't want to lose it entirely, this is California, after all, a state that latticed Trader Joe's, which doesn't advertise, into a nationwide cult, and a woman with diabetes thought fast on her feet, touching upon our ambivalence with cages, referencing the positive attributes of being a free market society. Some prisoners do become notorious causes, but those are a small minority, and MaryLinda was cognizant of limits. Perhaps some of you feel I was never cognizant of mine, and shrug. It isn't your fault I moved into "the badlands" of Philadelphia and wound up defeated, unwilling to correct the price I paid by moving back in with my mother, and here I am, so much bloody pulp, not strong enough to rewrite what I have to while shit gases out of me, allowing myself to wither on the vine under JEVS. This is where I get Galahad from, the care worker with whom I got frisky. I knew of JEVS when I too coordinated, and so here we are, with an all black cast, including a flaming gay drug addict whom I have to try really hard not to run out of my unit Monday. With all due respect to my Catholic and Christian accounts, this Trey fellow is a dead man on stilts, an incredibly fucked up little twinkee, he makes my West Oak Lane man look like college material, and I am barely holding it together, even though this Mawson Dave followed me, put aa assertive foot forward with Twitter DM. Hello Joanne, how are you? I patted Galahad's shoulder. "See you, I got a new boyfriend," teasing him. This is how we put up with each other, the bitch and the lion. I do not know what Dave wanted, don't have the energy to play the field anymore. This Q6 is a good chair, and after raising my voice at my uncle's troubled medical vendor, the avuncular technician, a man I know from childhood, reminded me that people are people, whether private enterprise or state model run, changed the arms for me to restore my hand grips. It is too little, too late. Restoring my legacy is an overload, and Galahad's determination to keep me from implementing my despair plan is only aided by inertia. All I have to do is unleash my inner caustic, empty, hollow-eyed hatred, as in, get the fuck out of my studio, you nigger imbeciles, and then go buy what I need, sort out the details. It is contingent upon me to want to live, to keep fighting, but this Q6 is just too high off the ground for me to be anything in it other than a potted plant. I no longer dress, barely prepare my food. The VNA achieved next to nothing, as did my father, my father's sister. Now I am just a body, giving unskilled blacks a Medicaid living at 10.5 an hour. Not one person respected the narrative I offered them so I could retain my skills, not one. I presume my followers have nothing to say to that.
I truly believed my sense of lifelong alienation would one day pass, back in my make the best of it Reagan era coming of age, and I would have been proud of myself for the strength of my accomplishments, instead of hit after hit leaving me already dead, barely able to sustain interpersonal relationships, impoverished, soiling disposable paper linens as soon as the end result of Lyndon Johnson's 60 year civil rights expansion walks out the door.
Showing posts with label liberty resources lies. Show all posts
Showing posts with label liberty resources lies. Show all posts
Saturday, August 4, 2018
Friday, April 6, 2018
Coin or Pea in The Shell
"I believe in a world where gay married couples are free to protect their marijuana fields with fully automatic machine guns."-- Austin Petersen, slogan maker extradinaire
And I do not believe in this world of a libertarian political hopeful on whom I've kept eyes for some time; if I find a better outlet than Reason to give him a serious expose, I will coax my friend to lose the above quote, try to give my readers a sharper definition of why he is the right Senator for Missouri, and for that propose, the moral relativism needs to be dialed down, this coming from a woman who, in 97, saw gay marriage as an inevitable legal victory, supported it, and in the intervening 19 years, I am not entirely unsympathetic to Roy Moore's hardline extremism on homosexuality. That is quite a shift simply because I felt threatened and survived trauma which for me was too much to bear. I know I'm on the losing end of this argument, and that progressives outnumber the right, and that my hostility has little intellectual standing other than medical model stricture, but I have been too close to too many men and women "in the life," some of whom I have written in here more than others, like Alan Gordon. Alan was privy to the intensity of my unhappiness for a long time. He and I kept our connection with each other through the deaths of our mothers in 2005, online and otherwise, and he knows me intimately. I cannot say he reads Disability In Entertainment Arts, but if he has, he must be appalled, and tried hard once to pull me back from the sheer extent of my hatred for what I allowed this center to do to me. Much has changed, and Liberty has been significantly downgraded due to Harrisburg's centralized horror of a shell game with Maximus, and I'd no longer recognize the chaotic empowerment tactics therein of my day. The chapters of past and present are no longer parallel, and this brings me to Craig Brittain's second suspension from Twitter, with a weary sigh.
A first amendment lawyer I chatted with briefly told me Craig was a fraud, and that he had to be directed by the SEC to stop representing himself as an attorney, but he was one of the first of my followers to accept me for as I present myself. I don't know what he did this time, but he takes Twitter's banned or suspended accounts like the holy grail. I do not, and have yet to see the evidence of Milo's genius. But I do have to say that Terms of Service policies have always had an air of uncertainty about them. Spam is speech. Twitter wants to be profitable, yet law firms cannot solicit clients. Account holders cannot ask other account holders for money, but we can promote, and even there, up to a point. We cannot harass other users, but I've trolled my share. Peter Thiel, though inactive on social media, probably could have had me banned for my brief outburst at him. Don't know. Nick Denton isn't exactly an exception to the dowager's coda, but I was nonetheless angry over Gawker's downfall. Once fraudulent parties are excised, we do not consider what happens to them unless they are recycled as an event worth telling: Stephen Glass denied at the state bar. Jayson Blair's plagiarism recast as an interracial motive for murder on Criminal Intent. They become life long outcasts, crippled in some fundamental way. I was going to profile Craig too with some libertarian window dressing, but in the third largest political party full of outliers, even felons, Craig is an outlier. He makes Austin seem nearly as established as Rand Paul.
In my shameless and weary dithering, I am working on a legal outline against Mr. Wheelchair. Vendors such as these dissolve with incremental regularity, but I cannot endure this machine. Pyrrhic victory at this point?
And I do not believe in this world of a libertarian political hopeful on whom I've kept eyes for some time; if I find a better outlet than Reason to give him a serious expose, I will coax my friend to lose the above quote, try to give my readers a sharper definition of why he is the right Senator for Missouri, and for that propose, the moral relativism needs to be dialed down, this coming from a woman who, in 97, saw gay marriage as an inevitable legal victory, supported it, and in the intervening 19 years, I am not entirely unsympathetic to Roy Moore's hardline extremism on homosexuality. That is quite a shift simply because I felt threatened and survived trauma which for me was too much to bear. I know I'm on the losing end of this argument, and that progressives outnumber the right, and that my hostility has little intellectual standing other than medical model stricture, but I have been too close to too many men and women "in the life," some of whom I have written in here more than others, like Alan Gordon. Alan was privy to the intensity of my unhappiness for a long time. He and I kept our connection with each other through the deaths of our mothers in 2005, online and otherwise, and he knows me intimately. I cannot say he reads Disability In Entertainment Arts, but if he has, he must be appalled, and tried hard once to pull me back from the sheer extent of my hatred for what I allowed this center to do to me. Much has changed, and Liberty has been significantly downgraded due to Harrisburg's centralized horror of a shell game with Maximus, and I'd no longer recognize the chaotic empowerment tactics therein of my day. The chapters of past and present are no longer parallel, and this brings me to Craig Brittain's second suspension from Twitter, with a weary sigh.
A first amendment lawyer I chatted with briefly told me Craig was a fraud, and that he had to be directed by the SEC to stop representing himself as an attorney, but he was one of the first of my followers to accept me for as I present myself. I don't know what he did this time, but he takes Twitter's banned or suspended accounts like the holy grail. I do not, and have yet to see the evidence of Milo's genius. But I do have to say that Terms of Service policies have always had an air of uncertainty about them. Spam is speech. Twitter wants to be profitable, yet law firms cannot solicit clients. Account holders cannot ask other account holders for money, but we can promote, and even there, up to a point. We cannot harass other users, but I've trolled my share. Peter Thiel, though inactive on social media, probably could have had me banned for my brief outburst at him. Don't know. Nick Denton isn't exactly an exception to the dowager's coda, but I was nonetheless angry over Gawker's downfall. Once fraudulent parties are excised, we do not consider what happens to them unless they are recycled as an event worth telling: Stephen Glass denied at the state bar. Jayson Blair's plagiarism recast as an interracial motive for murder on Criminal Intent. They become life long outcasts, crippled in some fundamental way. I was going to profile Craig too with some libertarian window dressing, but in the third largest political party full of outliers, even felons, Craig is an outlier. He makes Austin seem nearly as established as Rand Paul.
In my shameless and weary dithering, I am working on a legal outline against Mr. Wheelchair. Vendors such as these dissolve with incremental regularity, but I cannot endure this machine. Pyrrhic victory at this point?
Thursday, November 23, 2017
Shadow Emissions From Brown Dwarfs
[In spite of his refined sensibility Hyacinth Robinson, the little Soho bookbinder, is condemned, as the Princess puts it, “to look at the good things of life only through the glass of the pastry-cook’s window.”]
I
did not know that Oprah was also a sexual abuse victim who miscarried the
fruits of the violence against her, and it certainly explains what lurks
beneath her vivacious veneer, how she transmutes white suffering with the
agrarian cracks in black culture; it nevertheless doesn’t remove the irritants
of her telegenic superficiality, and the dowager believes this is what Karina
doesn’t understand about umbrage against false friends. I think I had enough of
that with my former heroine supervisor, Linda Dezenski, who “didn’t understand
what I wanted,” when she let me crash land into a near self-inflicted violence.
Discussing ideation is one thing, but the turmoil my former colleagues at
Liberty left me in is another, and I could have never truly gotten past what
happened to me without leaving River Presbyterian Apartments, and since I haven’t
managed that, and keep getting punched in the face, I needed to cast off my
former Craigslist hire. Karina saw the reality of my situation. Due to this,
with a trace of guilt, I overcompensated her, but had a different set of
expectations than consoling phone calls, particularly when I was in trouble in
October. I had hoped the peripatetic passer
would have stepped up to mitigate the stress of my equipment failure. The cues
I read in her voice said no way, so I essentially tossed courtesy out the
window, and unfriended her. I don’t necessarily dislike flighty blonds with
wobbly centers, but this shallowness is the venial American sin. I would not
have these same expectations from a women’s interest author like Gretchen
Laskas, though she has been in my department with some of her early writings,
because mutual physical support is not the foundation of our relationship.
Karina, however, accepted how I defined her, rapidly suggested and then
retracted a co-habitation, which, if she had more mettle behind her
declarations, would have spared me the equestrian braying cruelty of an asshole
like “Tom,” Presby’s contracted Holocaust squad leader. I fault conservatives
here too, harder as I am on the left, especially Kaisch with his Downs Syndrome
anti-abortion bill. Conservatives fight for our lives, but the majority of us
wind up as slaves, constricted chattel, unless we have the peculiar genius of Hawking.
It may appear that chronic conditions are harder on the precocious, but making
that assumption is laurel resting. The mentally retarded know, particularly
when entering into adulthood, that the world perceives the threat they pose.
Robert Redford tries to cut through this superficiality within his maturity,
almost with the force of preponderance in Majorie
Prime. Whatever the flaws in its gravity, the revelation of emotional
wounds, this futurist dramatic poem is a devastating condemnation of method acting. To that end it’s rather
finely tuned, and probably an affectation in the wake of Paul Newman’s terminal
cancer. The middlebrow would say Redford is wise, not engaging in a roman a
clef, hiding his intent in subtext, but I have an agenda, going to be gone
soon, and take my sacrifices. It could be that James Woods, trailing behind
Redford some years, doesn’t have the capacity to read my responses, as his
followers have steadily increased. In my case, I know I haven’t taken drops
simply due to vulgarity, but I do wince, when my fondness leads me to positive
attributes, like a solitaire guru, and I face the risk of more abandon if they
become aware, but we all know the price of eggs, how difficult broken yolks are
to clean away.
Saturday, June 24, 2017
Long, Tough Week
Kirstie Alley's 04 made for television saga about the Gecks of New Hampshire only receives a two star rating, but it certainly provides me with a ravenous window into the truth about the undertow in American life we don't really talk about. As Shelley Long's replacement on Cheers, Alley was "eh". There was a chemistry between Danson and Long which worked, the intangible quality of pheromones and comedy. Alley represented a shift in direction, conglomerate models swallowing up independent entrepreneurship, but she was a second fiddle, which summarizes her career, if it is not otherwise indicative of the fact that the character she portrays would have used urine as a cleaning agent if she could have turned it to her advantage. On a purely superficial level, Alley deserves credit for showing us ourselves as we are, obese and brutish beneath the surface, her figure gone, her Geck is representative of what we've become, and how we've metastasized government programs. Would the dowager have seen the face of the Matrix Research *consumer* in the real Brenda? Probably not. The majority cases of shrink wrap on my plate screwed up their heads into dysfunctional dependence, or, in my worst cases, ones where I did not even know why I broached the disability work incentives, they weren't lucid, but this woman wasn't insane the way the players in the film, or the Rotten Tomatoes commentators use it to ward off the most abhorrent aspects of broken primate behavior. She was highly organized, knew how to exploit the weak, manipulate children for profit, a world that became mine the minute I left my father's house, no picnic there, not with my mother (and since I'm conscious of the fact my surviving brother has a substantive footprint, I'll curb that bite). What the Gecks represent is squarely and solely the fault of progressive liberalism, no more, no less, and for once, I did not waste my time viewing and appreciating a mediocre portrayal which tells the truth about the downfall of western values, the loss of constraint, the sleaze in gaming the welfare state.
I might as well be an impoverished 22 year old graduate living off of boiled pasta rolling up and back North Broad Street as I now roll up and back Market. I try to keep busy, scrounging up what paying markets I can. When I graduated high school, my parents had located a building in Woodlyn with my peers, and I have no reason in my obstinate skull why I turned my parents down, said "no," if we can add this to the poor choice department. I have searched for the building since, never found it, but had I gone there, even if Liberty had been discovered, plausibly, and fucked me over, as it did, the consequences would have been different. I really can't say what was going on in my 19 year old head at the time, but I'm bitter. My only asset is my debt, which is so astronomical as to be nearly pointless. I don't see how I recover, and feel, legitimately, if independent living center corruption had such a disparate impact on my welfare, since that corruption flourishes under federal mandate, the DOE should shave off some of my interest. I'd imagine the executive branch would fall over itself with that line of reasoning.
The Greek title, paralepomenia, means "things omitted," the church fathers on 1Chronicles.
I might as well be an impoverished 22 year old graduate living off of boiled pasta rolling up and back North Broad Street as I now roll up and back Market. I try to keep busy, scrounging up what paying markets I can. When I graduated high school, my parents had located a building in Woodlyn with my peers, and I have no reason in my obstinate skull why I turned my parents down, said "no," if we can add this to the poor choice department. I have searched for the building since, never found it, but had I gone there, even if Liberty had been discovered, plausibly, and fucked me over, as it did, the consequences would have been different. I really can't say what was going on in my 19 year old head at the time, but I'm bitter. My only asset is my debt, which is so astronomical as to be nearly pointless. I don't see how I recover, and feel, legitimately, if independent living center corruption had such a disparate impact on my welfare, since that corruption flourishes under federal mandate, the DOE should shave off some of my interest. I'd imagine the executive branch would fall over itself with that line of reasoning.
The Greek title, paralepomenia, means "things omitted," the church fathers on 1Chronicles.
Sunday, June 11, 2017
Walken's Dark Liturgy
Sensibilita was at the heart of Futurism's main objectives--Futurism and the Technological Imagination, p.63
I made a genealogical error here and not a soul corrected me, neither the irritable Transcendentalists at Niume, nor in my nastier Twitter comfort zone. John Carradine was David's father. I mixed the lineage up, inadvertently. The dowager thought Cassidy was David's sire, but I was thinking of David Cassidy when he was my fake rock idol fuckable back in the day, and I mean that in all affection. Fuckable is softer: The Partridge Family may have been a crock-a-too, but my palpitations went soft for groove boy junior with his shag. That was our hairstyle. I decided to barrel some quick revisions into "John Carradine in Milan" and submit it to a pay-mart. Shouldn't take me more than 72 hours, but I bristle defensively at every editor to the right of the owner's booth at the Stanley Cup finals: I am not deleting this post my my account. I will take it off Niume, but not here. I am going to die soon, and Google must not extinguish this legacy, regardless of its antithetical umbrage with the ferocity of what I hate. Liberals made me promises and destroyed me, and I may get myself in trouble with Sanders' operatives if they do not vanish from my junk mail address. I regret supporting Obama, even in the face of his opponent's evident Sundown Syndrome, but I have to own the aging 08 anomaly at the primaries searching for difference. It was a failure. I regret Trump too, but his protective detail didn't haul me out of Riverside for telling the brash New York personality to get his fucking act together, and I respect that. If I had tilted at Barack one could only imagine my inconvenience, but Obama isn't a true African American, as has been noted. He is half Kenyan and half Caucasian Communist, and we used to black ball individuals like his fast and loose deceased mamma. Perhaps the CIA gave her cancer, as she was a really loose-cannon radical, from what ?I've gleaned: I have to own I hoped in this poor boy whose identity is in the vapor of a cirrus cloud, but Sanders's operatives are either going to get the fuck out of my virtual space or report me to the FBI field office again(?) I am not positive that Liberty's firm in Jersey actually had me flagged on an FBI alert: I told the CIL if someone like Omar Mateen came after them, I'd be ecstatic, and they prohibited me further contact. I threw my trauma they inflicted on me in Nancy's voice mail (she and I know each other by sight, not well). The prohibition vanished, as I did not say I'd be their Omar, only that IL will one day face what he represents if they do not start learning to be accountable for their institutional cruelty and racism. Whether my viewers are American, and are familiar with our rampage culture, or not: this will be the next shock, the next grief, the next battle with the NRA's money and stiff necked reliance-- a CIL will one day buy it because of what they do to the formerly indoctrinated such as I. NCIL has to put a stop to this if they want to save lives, and if I live long enough Congress is going to change the law. I am not the only one traumatized by IL assurances which flip on a dime, when statements like "you can always come back" actually mean "you will get an interview and then be ostracized the rest of your life." This behavior can kill people, especially those with sensory deprivation and limb impairments. Sanders organization culled me from OFA. I intend to make them regret it, like Walkens' Gabriel makes Simon regret impalement. The first in The Prophecy franchise did have an aspirational, liturgical hope, and even if I am a female, the Holy Father may find, to his astonishment, that I'm the Tuscan Joan d'Arc, a ferocious inquisitor who thinks the rack is rather beneficial.
I made a genealogical error here and not a soul corrected me, neither the irritable Transcendentalists at Niume, nor in my nastier Twitter comfort zone. John Carradine was David's father. I mixed the lineage up, inadvertently. The dowager thought Cassidy was David's sire, but I was thinking of David Cassidy when he was my fake rock idol fuckable back in the day, and I mean that in all affection. Fuckable is softer: The Partridge Family may have been a crock-a-too, but my palpitations went soft for groove boy junior with his shag. That was our hairstyle. I decided to barrel some quick revisions into "John Carradine in Milan" and submit it to a pay-mart. Shouldn't take me more than 72 hours, but I bristle defensively at every editor to the right of the owner's booth at the Stanley Cup finals: I am not deleting this post my my account. I will take it off Niume, but not here. I am going to die soon, and Google must not extinguish this legacy, regardless of its antithetical umbrage with the ferocity of what I hate. Liberals made me promises and destroyed me, and I may get myself in trouble with Sanders' operatives if they do not vanish from my junk mail address. I regret supporting Obama, even in the face of his opponent's evident Sundown Syndrome, but I have to own the aging 08 anomaly at the primaries searching for difference. It was a failure. I regret Trump too, but his protective detail didn't haul me out of Riverside for telling the brash New York personality to get his fucking act together, and I respect that. If I had tilted at Barack one could only imagine my inconvenience, but Obama isn't a true African American, as has been noted. He is half Kenyan and half Caucasian Communist, and we used to black ball individuals like his fast and loose deceased mamma. Perhaps the CIA gave her cancer, as she was a really loose-cannon radical, from what ?I've gleaned: I have to own I hoped in this poor boy whose identity is in the vapor of a cirrus cloud, but Sanders's operatives are either going to get the fuck out of my virtual space or report me to the FBI field office again(?) I am not positive that Liberty's firm in Jersey actually had me flagged on an FBI alert: I told the CIL if someone like Omar Mateen came after them, I'd be ecstatic, and they prohibited me further contact. I threw my trauma they inflicted on me in Nancy's voice mail (she and I know each other by sight, not well). The prohibition vanished, as I did not say I'd be their Omar, only that IL will one day face what he represents if they do not start learning to be accountable for their institutional cruelty and racism. Whether my viewers are American, and are familiar with our rampage culture, or not: this will be the next shock, the next grief, the next battle with the NRA's money and stiff necked reliance-- a CIL will one day buy it because of what they do to the formerly indoctrinated such as I. NCIL has to put a stop to this if they want to save lives, and if I live long enough Congress is going to change the law. I am not the only one traumatized by IL assurances which flip on a dime, when statements like "you can always come back" actually mean "you will get an interview and then be ostracized the rest of your life." This behavior can kill people, especially those with sensory deprivation and limb impairments. Sanders organization culled me from OFA. I intend to make them regret it, like Walkens' Gabriel makes Simon regret impalement. The first in The Prophecy franchise did have an aspirational, liturgical hope, and even if I am a female, the Holy Father may find, to his astonishment, that I'm the Tuscan Joan d'Arc, a ferocious inquisitor who thinks the rack is rather beneficial.
Friday, June 9, 2017
Oden's Hammer, with admissible discrepancies
Part of what I am attempting to do on Disability In Entertainment Arts is utilize my brain damage to my advantage, which is why I convolute so many things together. It doesn't always work, and my short lived protégé Louise Norlie indicated I might be less confusing, and less rushed, but some of my triggers are indicative of trauma no iconic personage can cure, like guilt over my online usage. I need to at the very least, mitigate this. My provider isn't an authoritarian dragoon. I may have had a little trouble mailing my bill in during the era of dial up , for which even I can scarf as a primitive folly, despite not being fully wireless- but I waited a little too patiently for ATT to convert to online billing, and I followed suit. I have been responsible, did everything they every asked of me, including the dreaded credit deposit. (Years ago, and yes, they returned it, but I am lucky I had over 30,000 dollars at my disposal to play these games.) Quelch. Now she is discussing long lost freedom of her personal finances. No one does that, nor do I, up to a point, but I am only attempting to illustrate how far my life imploded thanks to the false assurances of the disability intake model: When I was 23, still a rather fresh inner city body, I was in danger of starving to death, because the SSA field offices, overwhelmed, did not keep tabs on what their verifiable cripple was doing, and arbitrarily suspended my SSI. It points to why, unlike my dying father's sister, I am very very reluctant to depend on state welfare. I got through it then, but being very nearly in the same place, 32 years later, is obscene. I'm fully cognizant that I am less elastic, and yes, part of this falls on my shoulders: I resigned from The Matrix Research Institute like a water logged koosh ball, frightened of my clients, overwhelmed at losing my brother-- hence, "bumping into" my former manager from the center from which Matrix plucked me, this wasn't my best option, confiding in her through posts. My wounds over that permeate this entire account, revealing to me an implosive level of destruction which could, hypothetically, write itself out as a NSA political thriller spiraling into Armageddon.
Ten years ago, getting away from Presby terian Homes, this would have mitigated such terrible scars. [Riverside is the beige white tower if you want to rescue and thereby own my loyalty for life.] Now? I may have a case to sue the corporate office in Spring Mills from here to the center of the earth, but if I perceive an occasional overage as a crime against humanity. I am not really long on holding onto my sanity. My shins are going, but this doesn't mean a paraprofessional represents an optimal solution, you can trust me. I see too many abuses, even under Trudy's duress, using every weapon she can, striking out at me without realization of the consequences, because she is a moron, because Presbyterians hire minorities barely a step ahead of their brutal underclass on which they earn their salary, and there are far too many people like this, as opposed to those of keen acuity damaged by relentless cruelty. I have research to do, and may slow with Blogger for a time. I don't know if the company will allow me to code ads back in. They do not have to. I may, just barely, hold my inner savage in check, but I shall never be entirely free of the belief that people driven to violence have had too much amplified whippings.
As for Louise, I don't know how she is faring under the Trump Administration. She was a nice girl. Our contact had too much subterfuge.
Ten years ago, getting away from Presby terian Homes, this would have mitigated such terrible scars. [Riverside is the beige white tower if you want to rescue and thereby own my loyalty for life.] Now? I may have a case to sue the corporate office in Spring Mills from here to the center of the earth, but if I perceive an occasional overage as a crime against humanity. I am not really long on holding onto my sanity. My shins are going, but this doesn't mean a paraprofessional represents an optimal solution, you can trust me. I see too many abuses, even under Trudy's duress, using every weapon she can, striking out at me without realization of the consequences, because she is a moron, because Presbyterians hire minorities barely a step ahead of their brutal underclass on which they earn their salary, and there are far too many people like this, as opposed to those of keen acuity damaged by relentless cruelty. I have research to do, and may slow with Blogger for a time. I don't know if the company will allow me to code ads back in. They do not have to. I may, just barely, hold my inner savage in check, but I shall never be entirely free of the belief that people driven to violence have had too much amplified whippings.
As for Louise, I don't know how she is faring under the Trump Administration. She was a nice girl. Our contact had too much subterfuge.
Tuesday, February 28, 2017
Longing By Proxy
"he is such a tool!"-- dated slang, isn't it?
To the extent the three commercial networks are still relevant, ABC caters to our high school sensibilities, through shows as divergent as Ugly Betty, American Crime, and How To Get Away With Murder. I can respect Viola Davis even if African American pathology has scored on me once too often. She wears world weariness just like a stocky David Morse with breasts, moral guilt transcribed on their countenances. I only saw the season finale of _Murder_, and to the extent these legal dramas have changed, embodied in The Good Wife, they feed our cynicism, confirming sleaze tactics of the powerful. Davis may be a good actress, and I may even agree with Ebert that she elevated Doubt, as a movie, which was supposed to have more moral ambiguity embedded in it, something theater may do better than celluloid, but I haven't missed anything through lack of interest in her serial. The diarrhea scene in the Norwegian Half Brother was worth a million minutes of US air time, though the kinetic motion of this European serial didn't seize me either. CBS either deliberately or through inability, cannot evade a made for television look, and NBC clings to Dick Wolf.
Taken was a nice pilot, suitable for the Trump era, however brief, or otherwise entrenched the Trump administration may be, but the sneak peak makes it little more than a tactical Criminal Minds, with its work wife hills and dales between the ensemble. Fuck the profile. It is the sniper training that counts, and became instantly anti-climatic thereby.
I am very depressed. If I could, I'd roll away from Riverside Presbyterian tomorrow, with chump change in my checking account, a fecal stained foam cushion under my dry buttock with its rectal hidden pressure sore. I do not believe human compassion, human pity, will help me, but the lance of fury beneath my ribs cannot withstand it much longer. Exactly how do I think I'm going to avoid medical incarceration? Magic? Someone on social media will loan me a garage? I have not acted, yet, with my jabs at HUD (fuck them) and the Philadelphia Human Relations Commission. Tom Earle, their chair, met with me in 01 and did nothing, absolutely nothing, to investigate the trauma Liberty Resources practiced on my ensuing calamity, which their case management team plied with compounded interest through 06. I keep telling myself to wait, put the dossier together, find some legal help. I am not going to make it. What I've had to carry has a time limit; too much to endure.
To the extent the three commercial networks are still relevant, ABC caters to our high school sensibilities, through shows as divergent as Ugly Betty, American Crime, and How To Get Away With Murder. I can respect Viola Davis even if African American pathology has scored on me once too often. She wears world weariness just like a stocky David Morse with breasts, moral guilt transcribed on their countenances. I only saw the season finale of _Murder_, and to the extent these legal dramas have changed, embodied in The Good Wife, they feed our cynicism, confirming sleaze tactics of the powerful. Davis may be a good actress, and I may even agree with Ebert that she elevated Doubt, as a movie, which was supposed to have more moral ambiguity embedded in it, something theater may do better than celluloid, but I haven't missed anything through lack of interest in her serial. The diarrhea scene in the Norwegian Half Brother was worth a million minutes of US air time, though the kinetic motion of this European serial didn't seize me either. CBS either deliberately or through inability, cannot evade a made for television look, and NBC clings to Dick Wolf.
Taken was a nice pilot, suitable for the Trump era, however brief, or otherwise entrenched the Trump administration may be, but the sneak peak makes it little more than a tactical Criminal Minds, with its work wife hills and dales between the ensemble. Fuck the profile. It is the sniper training that counts, and became instantly anti-climatic thereby.
I am very depressed. If I could, I'd roll away from Riverside Presbyterian tomorrow, with chump change in my checking account, a fecal stained foam cushion under my dry buttock with its rectal hidden pressure sore. I do not believe human compassion, human pity, will help me, but the lance of fury beneath my ribs cannot withstand it much longer. Exactly how do I think I'm going to avoid medical incarceration? Magic? Someone on social media will loan me a garage? I have not acted, yet, with my jabs at HUD (fuck them) and the Philadelphia Human Relations Commission. Tom Earle, their chair, met with me in 01 and did nothing, absolutely nothing, to investigate the trauma Liberty Resources practiced on my ensuing calamity, which their case management team plied with compounded interest through 06. I keep telling myself to wait, put the dossier together, find some legal help. I am not going to make it. What I've had to carry has a time limit; too much to endure.
Sunday, February 12, 2017
Tooth Marks to a Schism
His Holiness Benedict XVI in his paternal concern for the spiritual distress which the parties concerned have voiced as a result of the excommunication, and trusting in their commitment, expressed in the aforementioned letter, to spare no effort in exploring as yet unresolved questions through requisite discussions with the authorities of the Holy See, a remission
Of course, attorneys in Haddonfield, never mind the abuse and humiliation I suffered at the hands of Liberty Resources, Incorporated, claimed, in a letter forbidding me any further contact with the center, that they forwarded my email referencing Omar Mateen to the FBI, which I then subsequently forwarded to Tony Stiles for his radio program. I then threw a legitimate fit, heart-rending torment, in the voice mail of Nancy, one of a dwindling number of the originals left from Liberty's founding, and she sent me to a deaf woman's phone. Liberty actually breaks the law, and makes settlements. I get referred to federal authorities for livid malice, nothing happens. This is the disease of urban entrenchment, but it's not quite so subversive any longer that I have the federal agency's communique with the public in an adversary file.
Had I signed into the virtual Niume community sooner I would have been deflated faster, and cannot say there was much of a conqueror's enthusiasm for joining in; it took me scant time to scold the administrators. I'm too hard nosed for all this "tune into nature" sensibility, finding myself exactly back where I was with Examiner. Clarity Media evidently folded its citizen journo slave labor into AXS, and I haven't attempted to return, hat in hand, for five dollar pieces over Niume's penny ante. No wonder they never cared about my post links, however hot the tongs. I'm unsure why blacks keep following me, but I'm as much to blame, linking back to them, unwittingly, indifferently. I am not trying to blame anyone in Oklahoma, if that was the implication people took away. I simply had an idea to bear down on Nichols with a fresh eye, and I had it earlier than the journo speculating on McVeigh's other motives, hence my anger. I had the idea and did not persist.
Of course, attorneys in Haddonfield, never mind the abuse and humiliation I suffered at the hands of Liberty Resources, Incorporated, claimed, in a letter forbidding me any further contact with the center, that they forwarded my email referencing Omar Mateen to the FBI, which I then subsequently forwarded to Tony Stiles for his radio program. I then threw a legitimate fit, heart-rending torment, in the voice mail of Nancy, one of a dwindling number of the originals left from Liberty's founding, and she sent me to a deaf woman's phone. Liberty actually breaks the law, and makes settlements. I get referred to federal authorities for livid malice, nothing happens. This is the disease of urban entrenchment, but it's not quite so subversive any longer that I have the federal agency's communique with the public in an adversary file.
Had I signed into the virtual Niume community sooner I would have been deflated faster, and cannot say there was much of a conqueror's enthusiasm for joining in; it took me scant time to scold the administrators. I'm too hard nosed for all this "tune into nature" sensibility, finding myself exactly back where I was with Examiner. Clarity Media evidently folded its citizen journo slave labor into AXS, and I haven't attempted to return, hat in hand, for five dollar pieces over Niume's penny ante. No wonder they never cared about my post links, however hot the tongs. I'm unsure why blacks keep following me, but I'm as much to blame, linking back to them, unwittingly, indifferently. I am not trying to blame anyone in Oklahoma, if that was the implication people took away. I simply had an idea to bear down on Nichols with a fresh eye, and I had it earlier than the journo speculating on McVeigh's other motives, hence my anger. I had the idea and did not persist.
Tuesday, December 27, 2016
Hostile Take Over, Anathema
Of course there should always be the possibility for another war-- my cynical rebuttal of Prime Minister Abe's grandiloquence
I really have things to do before the housing authority's mandatory paradigm heats up once more after January first, and thus, did not want to take the time for a first draft rant (I actually do have more thematic complications turning the gears behind my cranium), but Yahoo has hurt me with its new security measures. Extraditing myself from a mail account I've had for years, as my twitter inactive brother suggests, is not going to be a game of barefoot in the park sentimentality, and I'm genuinely angry. Though one can imagine an old portal site like Yahoo has a high turn over rate, similar to the revolving door for public housing managers, journalists beneath the top tier, spastic has had a long, addictive, aggressive-triggered relationship to the portal. Now it is serious. Their security changes are interfering with my personal life, and I am wondering if I should talk to a lawyer. Yes, I can export and then deactivate, but I always end up losing receipts and other items I need to keep. A more interesting question is, invoking the raider ICahn, made rich by his consumption, why do we continue to allow Yahoo to limp along on life support? Carrie Fisher's body, if not her psyche, at least, had the temerity to make her exodus at an appropriate time.
Yahoo we disparage withe an undercurrent of affection, as if the company incorporated itself using Snoopy as a beta stud. Yes, I am concerned with my vulnerability, and its trip wire quality. It isn't as if I haven't known episodic crisis's, and hurling headlong into the next, but I legitimately want some freedom before a form of dementia sets in. I have not turned to a libertarian wardrobe simply to arouse, amuse. My experiences with the welfare state are argument enough against it. Traditional conservatives like Pat Toomey and Paul Ryan can't really look at my struggle with matriculation and be forthright about it, that my exploitation made the careers of quacks and surgeons with a god complex, but I've done my time. The poverty re-enveloping me now is worse than when Liberty initially inducted, then kept me at arms' length after I hit eject. The sheer enormity of what is now economically almost impossible for me to achieve overwhelms me. I shut it down, so as to get off the mattress at all, but when I lose all ability to control my own limitations, it will put undue limitations on my sister, Little Ben, and my brother's a grandfather. Me? I have the compassion of a brave ditz I hired from Craigslist. Once independent living exculpates you, supervisors and their Jeffrey Dahmer jokes aside, replacing that familial relation is unduly difficult.
I really have things to do before the housing authority's mandatory paradigm heats up once more after January first, and thus, did not want to take the time for a first draft rant (I actually do have more thematic complications turning the gears behind my cranium), but Yahoo has hurt me with its new security measures. Extraditing myself from a mail account I've had for years, as my twitter inactive brother suggests, is not going to be a game of barefoot in the park sentimentality, and I'm genuinely angry. Though one can imagine an old portal site like Yahoo has a high turn over rate, similar to the revolving door for public housing managers, journalists beneath the top tier, spastic has had a long, addictive, aggressive-triggered relationship to the portal. Now it is serious. Their security changes are interfering with my personal life, and I am wondering if I should talk to a lawyer. Yes, I can export and then deactivate, but I always end up losing receipts and other items I need to keep. A more interesting question is, invoking the raider ICahn, made rich by his consumption, why do we continue to allow Yahoo to limp along on life support? Carrie Fisher's body, if not her psyche, at least, had the temerity to make her exodus at an appropriate time.
Yahoo we disparage withe an undercurrent of affection, as if the company incorporated itself using Snoopy as a beta stud. Yes, I am concerned with my vulnerability, and its trip wire quality. It isn't as if I haven't known episodic crisis's, and hurling headlong into the next, but I legitimately want some freedom before a form of dementia sets in. I have not turned to a libertarian wardrobe simply to arouse, amuse. My experiences with the welfare state are argument enough against it. Traditional conservatives like Pat Toomey and Paul Ryan can't really look at my struggle with matriculation and be forthright about it, that my exploitation made the careers of quacks and surgeons with a god complex, but I've done my time. The poverty re-enveloping me now is worse than when Liberty initially inducted, then kept me at arms' length after I hit eject. The sheer enormity of what is now economically almost impossible for me to achieve overwhelms me. I shut it down, so as to get off the mattress at all, but when I lose all ability to control my own limitations, it will put undue limitations on my sister, Little Ben, and my brother's a grandfather. Me? I have the compassion of a brave ditz I hired from Craigslist. Once independent living exculpates you, supervisors and their Jeffrey Dahmer jokes aside, replacing that familial relation is unduly difficult.
Thursday, November 17, 2016
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.
Tuesday, September 27, 2016
Contact Imports and the fall of Usher
And I know that I'll never be free/
As long as I'm a ghost you cannot see, Lightfoot's ballad, even if it's too glaringly obvious.
I may have noticed, from my slow and grudging LinkedIn activation, where I've been basically silent, except to tell Tom Earle that I wasn't going to stop fighting the syndicate, which finally relocated again-- they do that-- that Jerry's email was culled by accident for a connect prompt. I had a choice to make in 07 about contacting him at all, and I did it anyway. Life is short, and logarithms have little idea about the follies which stain our souls. I don't want his forgiveness, nor an apologia about my likely matriculation. Others besides Jerry told me I might enjoy teaching, but I'm no longer well enough, and was too frail from the start for students, regardless of their level, though I was a decent tutor. I can't just say, politely, "hi old man, how is Susan?" after I've been wiping his ass and mine off the floor for the last eight years, but nevertheless, seeing his social media account is a needle poke in the balloon. I just logged on to research my strange disjunctive part eulogy for my failure with my ex the deceased Frankie and the failed journalist in me screaming for a coffee article. Since everyone else writes about coffee I want to write about coffee and I've been beating my cranium with a switch for many years, how to sell a damn pitch resting on what everyone else says about the coffee bean, fungus, the crap about the 500 million franchises on the east coast alone? (This is spastic flipping out being civil, and this is the state of my unquenchable anger this morning.) If I do not find a safe way to vacate landlord, I'm dead; fighting a speculative shelter shiv seems tame, comparatively.
As long as I'm a ghost you cannot see, Lightfoot's ballad, even if it's too glaringly obvious.
I may have noticed, from my slow and grudging LinkedIn activation, where I've been basically silent, except to tell Tom Earle that I wasn't going to stop fighting the syndicate, which finally relocated again-- they do that-- that Jerry's email was culled by accident for a connect prompt. I had a choice to make in 07 about contacting him at all, and I did it anyway. Life is short, and logarithms have little idea about the follies which stain our souls. I don't want his forgiveness, nor an apologia about my likely matriculation. Others besides Jerry told me I might enjoy teaching, but I'm no longer well enough, and was too frail from the start for students, regardless of their level, though I was a decent tutor. I can't just say, politely, "hi old man, how is Susan?" after I've been wiping his ass and mine off the floor for the last eight years, but nevertheless, seeing his social media account is a needle poke in the balloon. I just logged on to research my strange disjunctive part eulogy for my failure with my ex the deceased Frankie and the failed journalist in me screaming for a coffee article. Since everyone else writes about coffee I want to write about coffee and I've been beating my cranium with a switch for many years, how to sell a damn pitch resting on what everyone else says about the coffee bean, fungus, the crap about the 500 million franchises on the east coast alone? (This is spastic flipping out being civil, and this is the state of my unquenchable anger this morning.) If I do not find a safe way to vacate landlord, I'm dead; fighting a speculative shelter shiv seems tame, comparatively.
Tuesday, September 20, 2016
Three Hours to Prepare a Decent Meal
It's the omnipresent constable." -- a sardonic Patrick O'Neal against Peter Falk
Microsoft offered me free antivirus software so I'm installing it, or part of it, wincing at what I paid Norton every cycle, and annoyances like this dart through our thought processes even in very dark places. Given how much I've hammered out on this account, how much further can a poor dowager descend? This spastic is aware of the gravity of making things so much harder by rolling out on these monsters, but if she doesn't go, she will wind up with forcible first response removal at some point, police struggling to put the Jazzy in manual while my hypertension explodes, hitherto merely the roar of a Roman lion. I sent Tony Stiles a copy of the New Jersey law firm prohibiting me any further contact with Philadelphia's notorious independent living center, without explaining things to him, without even realizing he might as well have been a geeky kid brother, given the disc jockey images of him which popped up, but the New Jersey law firm tactic crumpled: I roared into Nancy Salandra's voicemail last week about how I was traumatized and wanted to return to Delaware County, and a more recently minted den mother named Patricia McIntyre dialed my number back in less than 60 seconds but she and I have yet to speak. So much for Roman felines.
I think Agatha Christie's prodigious output is an indication of deep seated unhappiness, aside from pecuniary concerns. I read her more when I was younger, not so much recently. Can't go back into it as readily; there was also a television film about her suicide attempt which limped despite the efforts of Hoffman. In my list of 500 projects I'm never going to finish, I've pondered a murder novel and I've done preliminary research, and I seem to jumpstart myself by starting anew when I'm struggling with preposterous theories which I can see but others may not, as in Walter Hill is a political animal, The Driver is a political film without saying a word about the calamity lurch from Nixon to Ford losing to Carter. I am preparing this for a popular scholastic journal which once upon a time paid well, and I have to get there. Meanwhile, in short order, access to things taken for granted will become my latest logistical issue.
Should I dare to try my hand at a detective tale, and I do not know that I can succeed, I'd aim not so much for Shakespeare's flirtation with graphic brutality as for the traumatic, and I'd push, to the breaking point, right on the edge between immolation and art. Of course, I can wait, and drag this, and let Presby threaten me more, despite half the shit I have on them, but I'm tired, hate them, and hate my familial indifference. I've hated Riverside since my mother, still living, set me up here, and there have been meanders, but if I ran into Terri Way today I'd throttle her for my passive tolerance of letting her snow me, and in very small ways preferred Diamond Park. Christie, however, did herself push the traumatic when Poirot, and this actor doesn't quite capture my image of Christie's Belgian-- [fuck Miss Marple]-- used his drug tolerance to snare his greatest nemesis. She gave Poirot a denouement surpassing what Doyle gave Holmes.
Microsoft offered me free antivirus software so I'm installing it, or part of it, wincing at what I paid Norton every cycle, and annoyances like this dart through our thought processes even in very dark places. Given how much I've hammered out on this account, how much further can a poor dowager descend? This spastic is aware of the gravity of making things so much harder by rolling out on these monsters, but if she doesn't go, she will wind up with forcible first response removal at some point, police struggling to put the Jazzy in manual while my hypertension explodes, hitherto merely the roar of a Roman lion. I sent Tony Stiles a copy of the New Jersey law firm prohibiting me any further contact with Philadelphia's notorious independent living center, without explaining things to him, without even realizing he might as well have been a geeky kid brother, given the disc jockey images of him which popped up, but the New Jersey law firm tactic crumpled: I roared into Nancy Salandra's voicemail last week about how I was traumatized and wanted to return to Delaware County, and a more recently minted den mother named Patricia McIntyre dialed my number back in less than 60 seconds but she and I have yet to speak. So much for Roman felines.
I think Agatha Christie's prodigious output is an indication of deep seated unhappiness, aside from pecuniary concerns. I read her more when I was younger, not so much recently. Can't go back into it as readily; there was also a television film about her suicide attempt which limped despite the efforts of Hoffman. In my list of 500 projects I'm never going to finish, I've pondered a murder novel and I've done preliminary research, and I seem to jumpstart myself by starting anew when I'm struggling with preposterous theories which I can see but others may not, as in Walter Hill is a political animal, The Driver is a political film without saying a word about the calamity lurch from Nixon to Ford losing to Carter. I am preparing this for a popular scholastic journal which once upon a time paid well, and I have to get there. Meanwhile, in short order, access to things taken for granted will become my latest logistical issue.
Should I dare to try my hand at a detective tale, and I do not know that I can succeed, I'd aim not so much for Shakespeare's flirtation with graphic brutality as for the traumatic, and I'd push, to the breaking point, right on the edge between immolation and art. Of course, I can wait, and drag this, and let Presby threaten me more, despite half the shit I have on them, but I'm tired, hate them, and hate my familial indifference. I've hated Riverside since my mother, still living, set me up here, and there have been meanders, but if I ran into Terri Way today I'd throttle her for my passive tolerance of letting her snow me, and in very small ways preferred Diamond Park. Christie, however, did herself push the traumatic when Poirot, and this actor doesn't quite capture my image of Christie's Belgian-- [fuck Miss Marple]-- used his drug tolerance to snare his greatest nemesis. She gave Poirot a denouement surpassing what Doyle gave Holmes.
Thursday, July 21, 2016
Rocks Certainly Give the Illusion of Stark, Brutal Surfaces
I did post yesterday that I was going to take a break, but I've returned to say that the system has pushed me to the point of criminal insanity. I reverted back to the recovery center of my adolescent youth, and amazingly, Moss still has me on file, living at my old Diamond Park address, and the best anyone can do for me, in pain, and at crisis point, is give me an appointment over 45 days away with an orthopedic doctor who will probably look at me, think "Inglis House" and say something circumspect.
I could, of course, try my legs again in the bathroom, but again, narcotic strength withdrawal tied to narcotic strength arthritis pain, in this bloody awful Jazzy, is pushing it, even as my rectum has gone berserk. Everyone says try again with an attendant, which in translation means "put up with nigger behavior," and it is an impossible situation, forced to continue to engage the assholes who can declare victory, as I'm pretty much now a mind in a carcass-- I think, to the extent that Mr Radio Personality Stiles understands me, his advice that my defiance can "withstand anything" only comes up to a point, as the majority of humans in the US don't live by extraordinary medical regime. I had to live everything I have written about on this blog, with a pathology dwarfed only by Tunisians in Nice, and now I have no freedom whatsoever. It is going to take me days to knock any number of bitches around like bowling pins before the dust settles, you did not hear Joan's reaction, the receptionist, "Don't do that! Let them help you!"
They've never helped me, whether I've treated them with intimidating belligerence or not. I'm coming to the end of what I can cope with, however much I know I'm still alive for the sake of my work. The moral issues surrounding our virtual imprints keep growing, but no one wants, nor knows what to do with me, the despairing destructor. I am just a really dark voice amid thousands and thousands of pedestrians, even as one has to wonder about Google's obligations. I'm near the end, and this is all that's left, a cripple who wanted to be normal and get a Jesus Christ superstar of her own. I quelled whatever paranoia I initially experienced at the discovery I lost broadcast access to Bounce and GetTV. I know it is one of these poverty things and not a ready news item, but I am puzzled as to what happened, why I lost these two stations.
I could, of course, try my legs again in the bathroom, but again, narcotic strength withdrawal tied to narcotic strength arthritis pain, in this bloody awful Jazzy, is pushing it, even as my rectum has gone berserk. Everyone says try again with an attendant, which in translation means "put up with nigger behavior," and it is an impossible situation, forced to continue to engage the assholes who can declare victory, as I'm pretty much now a mind in a carcass-- I think, to the extent that Mr Radio Personality Stiles understands me, his advice that my defiance can "withstand anything" only comes up to a point, as the majority of humans in the US don't live by extraordinary medical regime. I had to live everything I have written about on this blog, with a pathology dwarfed only by Tunisians in Nice, and now I have no freedom whatsoever. It is going to take me days to knock any number of bitches around like bowling pins before the dust settles, you did not hear Joan's reaction, the receptionist, "Don't do that! Let them help you!"
They've never helped me, whether I've treated them with intimidating belligerence or not. I'm coming to the end of what I can cope with, however much I know I'm still alive for the sake of my work. The moral issues surrounding our virtual imprints keep growing, but no one wants, nor knows what to do with me, the despairing destructor. I am just a really dark voice amid thousands and thousands of pedestrians, even as one has to wonder about Google's obligations. I'm near the end, and this is all that's left, a cripple who wanted to be normal and get a Jesus Christ superstar of her own. I quelled whatever paranoia I initially experienced at the discovery I lost broadcast access to Bounce and GetTV. I know it is one of these poverty things and not a ready news item, but I am puzzled as to what happened, why I lost these two stations.
Tuesday, July 12, 2016
Nanny Goat
"Don't come out. It's too hot."-- Nicholas Marinelli
Despite the storm, and the fact that I knew I was off when I launched from toilet back to cushion Saturday, an attendant would not have solved the problem that I lost my balance after 10 pm. I did not actually fall, just squished, an actual Kafka vermin, and I deposited large, shall we say. Cerebral palsy is like that; wheelchair sitting augments the problem, and when my stool is hefty I get winded and knew I should have waited and repositioned; nevertheless, the episode is a harbinger that my lateral transfers are weakening. Evicting myself from Niggerland and nigger bitches and beetle boys shall not restore my strength, but I warned mio padre of my scheme and he said okay without realizing I'm rolling out of Riverside for good. Depositing that stool in a diaper would have amounted to a health hazard, and I may not have a solution, but I'm going home, divided as to whether I should put myself in rehab for a few days, not optimistic about that, and transfer boards never worked for me.
I know this is going to cost me, and I may lose my phone and even most of my possessions, unless I threaten the corporate office, but I'm leaving, even at the price of falling silent, maybe not forever-- or it could be that I have reached an end point, so if the authorities have coerced ATT into monitoring me they aren't going to find the radicalization they look for in the traditional sense. (I don't know, all I intimated to my favorite independent living center was one day they will face an Omar Mateen if they keep prevaricating as they do with quadriplegics, but it isn't just us, they hire and boot the blind and epileptics with equally perspicacious dispensing of employees who need unreasonable accommodating). I'm still evil, still angry enough to go to prison, but age trumps even the vicious, and I need to get this done before the man dies, while I wrestle the moral dilemma of bed ridden dependency. I cannot do it. I just can't. I know what I face, even if it's an open question how long I survive it. I want to go home, and my father is where that resides in my heart. I talked to him about a steel temp building of some sort. He is going to kill me, and I'm stressed beyond what I need, but there we have it.
Despite the storm, and the fact that I knew I was off when I launched from toilet back to cushion Saturday, an attendant would not have solved the problem that I lost my balance after 10 pm. I did not actually fall, just squished, an actual Kafka vermin, and I deposited large, shall we say. Cerebral palsy is like that; wheelchair sitting augments the problem, and when my stool is hefty I get winded and knew I should have waited and repositioned; nevertheless, the episode is a harbinger that my lateral transfers are weakening. Evicting myself from Niggerland and nigger bitches and beetle boys shall not restore my strength, but I warned mio padre of my scheme and he said okay without realizing I'm rolling out of Riverside for good. Depositing that stool in a diaper would have amounted to a health hazard, and I may not have a solution, but I'm going home, divided as to whether I should put myself in rehab for a few days, not optimistic about that, and transfer boards never worked for me.
I know this is going to cost me, and I may lose my phone and even most of my possessions, unless I threaten the corporate office, but I'm leaving, even at the price of falling silent, maybe not forever-- or it could be that I have reached an end point, so if the authorities have coerced ATT into monitoring me they aren't going to find the radicalization they look for in the traditional sense. (I don't know, all I intimated to my favorite independent living center was one day they will face an Omar Mateen if they keep prevaricating as they do with quadriplegics, but it isn't just us, they hire and boot the blind and epileptics with equally perspicacious dispensing of employees who need unreasonable accommodating). I'm still evil, still angry enough to go to prison, but age trumps even the vicious, and I need to get this done before the man dies, while I wrestle the moral dilemma of bed ridden dependency. I cannot do it. I just can't. I know what I face, even if it's an open question how long I survive it. I want to go home, and my father is where that resides in my heart. I talked to him about a steel temp building of some sort. He is going to kill me, and I'm stressed beyond what I need, but there we have it.
Sunday, July 10, 2016
What's in a Resource?
"Do you know what you're hoping for?"-- Diana Ross, crossing over
While I am waiting for the overdose of my aging Nsaids to kick in so I can try to lie down without duly landing on the carpet, which I'm vacating shortly, let me post a little more about Liberty. All I ever did there, before I went to Irv's deceased research institute, was take a nursing home resident in a body brace to a luncheon I was directed to organize. That is about it. The woman died shortly thereafter, and the rest of the time, I visited nursing home residents, or subjected minority public housing cripples to the same level of objectification Liberty's coordinators inflicted on me between 99 and 08, aside from the charming psychic warfare going on between Linda and I. The center is always writing grants, empowerment projects, but their staff has little to no enforcement power. At its essence, independent living centers are rehabilitation and mobility medicine at cut rate prices, micro managed by either optimistic or cynical lieutenants like myself. My former peer counselor, Laverne King, was terminated for being a power wheelchair user placed in exactly the same predicament Linda tried to place me: She lied about an onsite visit to a consumer who's residence was inaccessible. She should not have lied, but I am now uncertain about Bob Michael's rather swift termination of her livelihood. The more sentient Erik von Schmettering, the once upon a time dubious ally from whom I sought relief, in much the same way as Celine screamed for relief in his work, would say the CIL I knew in 89 has *changed,* but that isn't really the truth. They just encroached upon state vocational services. Aside from what happened to me, why am I so angry then, why am I still so emotionally vested in the institutional cruelty the paradigm represents? I've already discussed their utter lack of accountability. Indeed, even in my recent conflict with Erik's squat and pudgy attendant, Erik whimpered "Chris didn't do anything to you," even though Chris was doing something, objectifying me down to tits and puss.
I'm angry because I know they need to be stopped, before they actually do drive a quadriplegic with my potential to suicide. In my story with the center, lies the reflection of hundreds of failures, cripples burned across the country, with morally superior case managers hiding behind the shields of their processes. I am not the only victim, though allowing my over-identification with psychopathology supervisor has its own unique signature. If either Linda, the CSPPPD aunt, or the community advocate, had truly respected me, they would not have played mind games with me. Both of them. They could have spared me a conference, asked me where I wanted to go after I washed out under Richard Baron. I know the eggs in one basket approach leads to ooze and broken cartons, but it isn't as if a 37 year old who was under a misapprehension about teaching could suddenly wait tables, or go into ballet, and as I've written before, the Painted Bride theatrical performer and I didn't mesh. I satirize art therapy with as much irony as AS Byatt, who does do things differently.
None of you want the burden we represent once we lose the shelter of family, in my case, never that healthy to begin with, and yet, we're supposed to grin, bear it, in a happy bauble of subsistence. I truly say, echoing my brutal poppa's drunken reflections on the tragedy of his children, that you should let us die in selective reduction, or at birth. Far less cruel, more merciful than life by statutory regulation, all but meaningless. I never wanted to live like this. I wanted the same freedom I think you have, on the other side of the glass. I still didn't stay down Saturday evening, true, but what moved the needle was knowledge. It would have been an excessive way to expire.
While I am waiting for the overdose of my aging Nsaids to kick in so I can try to lie down without duly landing on the carpet, which I'm vacating shortly, let me post a little more about Liberty. All I ever did there, before I went to Irv's deceased research institute, was take a nursing home resident in a body brace to a luncheon I was directed to organize. That is about it. The woman died shortly thereafter, and the rest of the time, I visited nursing home residents, or subjected minority public housing cripples to the same level of objectification Liberty's coordinators inflicted on me between 99 and 08, aside from the charming psychic warfare going on between Linda and I. The center is always writing grants, empowerment projects, but their staff has little to no enforcement power. At its essence, independent living centers are rehabilitation and mobility medicine at cut rate prices, micro managed by either optimistic or cynical lieutenants like myself. My former peer counselor, Laverne King, was terminated for being a power wheelchair user placed in exactly the same predicament Linda tried to place me: She lied about an onsite visit to a consumer who's residence was inaccessible. She should not have lied, but I am now uncertain about Bob Michael's rather swift termination of her livelihood. The more sentient Erik von Schmettering, the once upon a time dubious ally from whom I sought relief, in much the same way as Celine screamed for relief in his work, would say the CIL I knew in 89 has *changed,* but that isn't really the truth. They just encroached upon state vocational services. Aside from what happened to me, why am I so angry then, why am I still so emotionally vested in the institutional cruelty the paradigm represents? I've already discussed their utter lack of accountability. Indeed, even in my recent conflict with Erik's squat and pudgy attendant, Erik whimpered "Chris didn't do anything to you," even though Chris was doing something, objectifying me down to tits and puss.
I'm angry because I know they need to be stopped, before they actually do drive a quadriplegic with my potential to suicide. In my story with the center, lies the reflection of hundreds of failures, cripples burned across the country, with morally superior case managers hiding behind the shields of their processes. I am not the only victim, though allowing my over-identification with psychopathology supervisor has its own unique signature. If either Linda, the CSPPPD aunt, or the community advocate, had truly respected me, they would not have played mind games with me. Both of them. They could have spared me a conference, asked me where I wanted to go after I washed out under Richard Baron. I know the eggs in one basket approach leads to ooze and broken cartons, but it isn't as if a 37 year old who was under a misapprehension about teaching could suddenly wait tables, or go into ballet, and as I've written before, the Painted Bride theatrical performer and I didn't mesh. I satirize art therapy with as much irony as AS Byatt, who does do things differently.
None of you want the burden we represent once we lose the shelter of family, in my case, never that healthy to begin with, and yet, we're supposed to grin, bear it, in a happy bauble of subsistence. I truly say, echoing my brutal poppa's drunken reflections on the tragedy of his children, that you should let us die in selective reduction, or at birth. Far less cruel, more merciful than life by statutory regulation, all but meaningless. I never wanted to live like this. I wanted the same freedom I think you have, on the other side of the glass. I still didn't stay down Saturday evening, true, but what moved the needle was knowledge. It would have been an excessive way to expire.
Monday, June 27, 2016
Editor's Note
I have five days to go, and need to breathe, and work out a wheelchair fumigation, get the HP formatted and shut the fuck up before I really start a riot. I will never be able to cure myself from using tobacco, never, not that I am reverting back, but functioning without the vapor, being a good reporter, is hell, and I thought about approaching Denton to cover Rendell on Wednesday, but how can I? As strong as I am, smoking is the Achilles heel. It is so difficult, being already dead, dying to live a last few good years, package a small writing legacy, and WTF have I done but let disability kindergarten mentality destroy me?
Saturday, May 7, 2016
Inability to Come to Terms
I wasted a lot of time this afternoon discovering what I already knew, that community portals like Yabberz are counterproductive, that regardless of what I do, individuals such as I get sucked into contests, and I abandoned Mike Horton's nursery of festivities three times in the course of my online life, and should no doubt give up blogging, given the emotional erosion that comes with age. Perhaps I am a little too frenetic to push the envelope a little more right now, and should go clean my coffee pot, which I meant to do all day and instead wanted to log on to research Trump's plausibility with his audit of the Federal Reserve, and instead, went to that fucking nuisance of a non-partisan venue. Jesus Fucking Christ. Why, when I know better?
I was flagged by some bitch for going into detail about the black racism I've lived, and she no doubt had a victory orgasm, and that ends my membership in such fractious folly, proving there are things we cannot change about ourselves. Pain only tends to breed more unkindness, and no one likes self-pity, or uncouth veracity. I have insinuated things about Philadelphia Adapt and my former colleagues, of course; I'm not their only victim, nor Presby's, even though I've stated in no uncertain terms what I'd like to do to Riverside, so maybe Blogger is afraid someone will take ideas into their head. I don't know, but in that case, let me be arrested and charged. More than the people, I want independent living centers overhauled. For what they are, they hurt too many. No one cares, and sometimes that is why people act. I'm never going to clear my debt, even if I find a happier environ and some small part time activity, and contrary to what liberals may feel, I want to honor the obligations of my loan, but it is not going to happen, as my marginalization is now the product which funded my own past salaries, and I put my heart and my soul on a sleeve, and Blogger has to inject itself in very careful doublespeak.
Don't get me wrong, Google is mighty and I'm an ant outracing the killing fields, but I want my voice to remain as a testament to the fact that intelligence, matriculation, spare us nothing when the blows keep coming, like Trudy Richardson's repeated humiliations. I would truly rather eviction, even though some of you cannot see that logic.
I was flagged by some bitch for going into detail about the black racism I've lived, and she no doubt had a victory orgasm, and that ends my membership in such fractious folly, proving there are things we cannot change about ourselves. Pain only tends to breed more unkindness, and no one likes self-pity, or uncouth veracity. I have insinuated things about Philadelphia Adapt and my former colleagues, of course; I'm not their only victim, nor Presby's, even though I've stated in no uncertain terms what I'd like to do to Riverside, so maybe Blogger is afraid someone will take ideas into their head. I don't know, but in that case, let me be arrested and charged. More than the people, I want independent living centers overhauled. For what they are, they hurt too many. No one cares, and sometimes that is why people act. I'm never going to clear my debt, even if I find a happier environ and some small part time activity, and contrary to what liberals may feel, I want to honor the obligations of my loan, but it is not going to happen, as my marginalization is now the product which funded my own past salaries, and I put my heart and my soul on a sleeve, and Blogger has to inject itself in very careful doublespeak.
Don't get me wrong, Google is mighty and I'm an ant outracing the killing fields, but I want my voice to remain as a testament to the fact that intelligence, matriculation, spare us nothing when the blows keep coming, like Trudy Richardson's repeated humiliations. I would truly rather eviction, even though some of you cannot see that logic.
Wednesday, May 4, 2016
Fear in the Digital Age
I wanted to discuss Google's power, without overreacting, because I remain uncertain why they are moving my domain from WHOIS. I am intelligent, but don't quite grasp why Blogger's upgrade means I'm being exported; it is either procedural, or some sort of majority flagging is going on. I don't understand the email and never succeeded in getting anything made clear in their forums, and have a week to try to get a live representative to explain things to me. Perhaps it just isn't worth the head winds. Maybe getting familiar on Yabberz had something to do with it, but I cannot know that, even if I ask. It wouldn't achieve anything, but the time and energy I've spent putting my soul into this account is all I have, whether it appalls viewers or ignites pity, or occasional appreciation, this is it, and forcing me to make it a personal account no one sees except by request is pointless, regardless of who has been embarrassed.
(Apparently nothing untoward happened, but I still don't get it, as my twitter account is still secured on a WHOIS platform.) It also isn't fair that Google may be earning money on my posts but cannot make re-mometization simpler for me as a disadvantaged woman over 50, even if you might say I have other platform choices.)
I am going to die soon. My body can't take the stress, regardless of corporate unease, and leaving this human stain is necessary, even if I understand the monopolistic gravitation toward moderation which my mettle won't obey, since mortality overtaking us creates urgency. I've become blunter, without going so far as to try to draw Trump's supporters to my advantage. If I cannot get justice for the cruelty of my life, I intend to go down fighting. One year, Marie said, "you belong in the street!" Because I don't let up. 23 year old university students shouldn't be trapped in section 202 housing for life simply due to the fact that they are power chair users who never guite solved the commute issue. I hate Presbyterian Homes, and by extension, the whole 202 system. When Denny O'Brien advocates the virtue of yoga classes, how the holy fuck am I supposed to enter into that? To make a grievance threadbare, Liberty Resources and Linda Dezenski were my segregated family, as was the dying gargoyle on the eighth floor.
My mother, ten years ago, maybe more, asked why I couldn't just live my life. There is nothing left of it to live.
(Apparently nothing untoward happened, but I still don't get it, as my twitter account is still secured on a WHOIS platform.) It also isn't fair that Google may be earning money on my posts but cannot make re-mometization simpler for me as a disadvantaged woman over 50, even if you might say I have other platform choices.)
I am going to die soon. My body can't take the stress, regardless of corporate unease, and leaving this human stain is necessary, even if I understand the monopolistic gravitation toward moderation which my mettle won't obey, since mortality overtaking us creates urgency. I've become blunter, without going so far as to try to draw Trump's supporters to my advantage. If I cannot get justice for the cruelty of my life, I intend to go down fighting. One year, Marie said, "you belong in the street!" Because I don't let up. 23 year old university students shouldn't be trapped in section 202 housing for life simply due to the fact that they are power chair users who never guite solved the commute issue. I hate Presbyterian Homes, and by extension, the whole 202 system. When Denny O'Brien advocates the virtue of yoga classes, how the holy fuck am I supposed to enter into that? To make a grievance threadbare, Liberty Resources and Linda Dezenski were my segregated family, as was the dying gargoyle on the eighth floor.
My mother, ten years ago, maybe more, asked why I couldn't just live my life. There is nothing left of it to live.
Tuesday, January 19, 2016
To continue an imaginary debate
Fareed Zakaria would probably make the objection to me that according to Asian standards, I don't know what misery is, and to a certain extent he's right, but the disabled even in the western hemisphere are closest to third world conditions, and I can't keep bearing this up, even figures from my academic past are a case in point. Louisiana at La Fayette is a long way from the city of Chester, where Jerry McGuire wound up, and his firing from Widener, from the little I know, had some legitimacy. What Liberty did to me doesn't. As a technical matter it was illegal, and it is not conducive to my well-being that I have to live with Liberty board of director members who break the law at whim.
It may be better than a homeless shelter, but not by much. Certainly my lassitude bears some blame for the wrecking ball in my life, but it is like living with a skull fracture I can't repair.
It may be better than a homeless shelter, but not by much. Certainly my lassitude bears some blame for the wrecking ball in my life, but it is like living with a skull fracture I can't repair.
Monday, January 4, 2016
Pizzo
"Intuitive improvisation is the secret to genius"-- Christopher Walken, playfully Zorin
On the other hand, as some of my early viewers may recall, I want to return to Italy to die there, so maybe lack of accessibility wouldn't be such an issue, if all I wish is to close my eyes and press my fatigued lips to the sampietrini, Roman basalt being the basic sequence of my DNA. Going home to be robbed of my dignity by clever ladri may not be the most peaceful way to expire, but transporting the greaseball to Philadelphia hasn't succeeded in erasing the dago from the flesh, and at my age I have to make a choice: throw every impoverished energy I have into setting my sights on Tuscany, or fight the disability center. Perhaps my ambulatory viewers do not quite comprehend the sequential spiral of events, between 1989 and now. I've given bits, and hints, and turned Linda C Dezenski into a byword, only occasionally objective as to the shared blame between the two of us, but the problem of Liberty isn't simply her exorcism, nor my exile. Independent living centers generate their own bigotry, and the only way to put a stop to that is in eliminating them, or at least redistricting them to reduce the constant litigation. Employers get sued, it is a fact of life, and we mitigate that with reality television transforming executives into camera philanthropists to avoid insurrection, at least most of the time. Dushey's humanitarian conscience was a dog and pony show for the camera, not to be believed, ultimately unsustainable. The sole reason spastic paid the plight of Shoppers World any attention was a dearth of material, indifferently checking in with NZT, but intake centers like Liberty are in a class by themselves, and only the disabled who emerge from them truly understand this. Reasonable accommodation means, in CIL culture, that competency is a nice idea, much like Gandhi's barb about western civilization. EEOC lawsuits are the norm here, and this is truly why I prefer reactionary retrenchment to the progressive spectrum. Tom Earle is an attorney of disability law, and yet, utilized his legal blindness as a cover for negligence. To me this is incredible, though passing the buck was a blatant admission of his predecessor, Fern Markowitz. "I am not responsible for her conduct."
Direct quote. Again, this isn't simply about what Liberty did to me. No one accepts responsibility for the abuse and stigma which is a daily occurrence in IL. No liability might be the motto of the entire country, let alone the state, or the city. I'd break the law to get Liberty closed down, and only my exhausted scrambling prevents me from acting, but when I'm ready, I'm going to load my guns and put up a hell of a fight. I want a better future for those after me.
I nearly hurt myself in the winter of 2000; that is how distraught I was, racing around to find a therapeutic lifeline, and I will not permit them to do this to others in perpetuity, the bedridden who are abused. It may not be as rampant as nursing home neglect, but the very activism Liberty trumpets hides its secret holocaust on a small scale. This is not progressive, not for all Krugman's blue blood whinny about socialized medicine, and Shoppers World inadvertently exposed these skeletal fossils, if you listened to the vagaries of the employees problems: nursing homes, pregnancies, dialysis. Executives like Dushey cannot bankrupt themselves due to lack of awareness over shoplifting and the inadequacy of Medicaid. On the positive side, if I do get across the Atlantic, the ladri would discover I'm an excellent enforcer. My first allegiance is always to Rome. Don't forget it.
On the other hand, as some of my early viewers may recall, I want to return to Italy to die there, so maybe lack of accessibility wouldn't be such an issue, if all I wish is to close my eyes and press my fatigued lips to the sampietrini, Roman basalt being the basic sequence of my DNA. Going home to be robbed of my dignity by clever ladri may not be the most peaceful way to expire, but transporting the greaseball to Philadelphia hasn't succeeded in erasing the dago from the flesh, and at my age I have to make a choice: throw every impoverished energy I have into setting my sights on Tuscany, or fight the disability center. Perhaps my ambulatory viewers do not quite comprehend the sequential spiral of events, between 1989 and now. I've given bits, and hints, and turned Linda C Dezenski into a byword, only occasionally objective as to the shared blame between the two of us, but the problem of Liberty isn't simply her exorcism, nor my exile. Independent living centers generate their own bigotry, and the only way to put a stop to that is in eliminating them, or at least redistricting them to reduce the constant litigation. Employers get sued, it is a fact of life, and we mitigate that with reality television transforming executives into camera philanthropists to avoid insurrection, at least most of the time. Dushey's humanitarian conscience was a dog and pony show for the camera, not to be believed, ultimately unsustainable. The sole reason spastic paid the plight of Shoppers World any attention was a dearth of material, indifferently checking in with NZT, but intake centers like Liberty are in a class by themselves, and only the disabled who emerge from them truly understand this. Reasonable accommodation means, in CIL culture, that competency is a nice idea, much like Gandhi's barb about western civilization. EEOC lawsuits are the norm here, and this is truly why I prefer reactionary retrenchment to the progressive spectrum. Tom Earle is an attorney of disability law, and yet, utilized his legal blindness as a cover for negligence. To me this is incredible, though passing the buck was a blatant admission of his predecessor, Fern Markowitz. "I am not responsible for her conduct."
Direct quote. Again, this isn't simply about what Liberty did to me. No one accepts responsibility for the abuse and stigma which is a daily occurrence in IL. No liability might be the motto of the entire country, let alone the state, or the city. I'd break the law to get Liberty closed down, and only my exhausted scrambling prevents me from acting, but when I'm ready, I'm going to load my guns and put up a hell of a fight. I want a better future for those after me.
I nearly hurt myself in the winter of 2000; that is how distraught I was, racing around to find a therapeutic lifeline, and I will not permit them to do this to others in perpetuity, the bedridden who are abused. It may not be as rampant as nursing home neglect, but the very activism Liberty trumpets hides its secret holocaust on a small scale. This is not progressive, not for all Krugman's blue blood whinny about socialized medicine, and Shoppers World inadvertently exposed these skeletal fossils, if you listened to the vagaries of the employees problems: nursing homes, pregnancies, dialysis. Executives like Dushey cannot bankrupt themselves due to lack of awareness over shoplifting and the inadequacy of Medicaid. On the positive side, if I do get across the Atlantic, the ladri would discover I'm an excellent enforcer. My first allegiance is always to Rome. Don't forget it.
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