Famine (Irish: an Gorta Mór, [anˠ ˈgɔɾˠt̪ˠa mˠoːɾˠ]) or the Great Hunger was a period of mass starvation, disease, and emigration in Ireland between 1845 and 1852.
Do you ever expend useless capital on a frivolous enterprise? I was examining my LinkedIn Pulse transmissions, wondering why I want to write a LinkedIn post in the first place. I've been out of the game a very long time due to Philadelphia's periodic contractions of services leading up to the Great Recession; by 2010, despite cyclic familial monetary gifts, my money market account was wiped out, and I am exactly back where I was at the age of 23, except for the apartment, this one less functional than that on 1500 West Page Street. Out of curiosity I plugged my old zip code in search 19121, and came up with numerous dead articles and defeated HUD promises about humane, aesthetic, disability housing, wondering if this is an alternate Google verse. Why is writing a relatively generic and nondescript LinkedIn post important to me? To prove I'm still capable, not white trash, not so broken I cannot speak business? The writer Mark Johnson actually is listed as a Leftist Review contributor, hence I found him outside of Yabberz, to hypothetically tell his bosses he is an uncouth bastard, something I could never get away with on LinkedIn Pulse, on which I'd hardly be featured. I cannot afford to support LinkedIn, even if I had not been defeated by governmental insistence on spend down of my resources; regardless, without some form of steady commissions, I would have been wiped out anyway. What do I still believe I am able to do? In terms of my age and all the rest?
I can hardly answer. It is akin to the differential between an agnostic and a Roman Catholic atheist who should lie down. My drive, curiously, went splat for a bit after I got a yes on my pitch. I am procrastinating again, no set deadline, but not ready to blow two gigabytes frying my brain on comparative data and need to relax, keep pitching, stay aware of the fact I'm no longer 35, get some rest, and trust in the fact that if I am not going to Inglis House, then be assured of my own strength and let the state know it will have to kill me first. There are publications I wouldn't submit to. Not that Mark's is one of them, but he'd probably have me black balled if he put my avatars together. Dog days coming in. I think I could move to Ohio without much culture shock, if I could stay out of the hood.
PS: twitter assisted me with my research without so much as a blink, and that is something.
Showing posts with label mark johnson. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mark johnson. Show all posts
Thursday, July 7, 2016
Thursday, June 23, 2016
Pretentious Liberal Motherfuckers
"You sure?"-- Lawrence Gilliard, coming back from the dead to cross us over
The Hortons did not do anything overtly illegal in their solicitation. This was not a case of the state police tracking my brother down like an animal, a script straight of a seventies exploitation film, which is what my indelible memory of his face in that detention facility compares it to, an episode of The Fugitive. All the Hortons did was find my twitter account; perhaps in the belief that a raging bull with tits would help their traffic ratio; I said to myself what the fuck is this? And made successive errors in judgment, for which I am now shamelessly trolling the couple and their community regulars.
Just like Mark Johnson, I can strike below the belt, and I was going to tell Karen Lee Bartlett her husband was an annoying voluble ass, just to be cruel. She was probably checking me out, because her motor moving epileptic spouse gave me what I thought I needed: chatter. If she was worried, she needn't have been. I would have abused BridgeToursJade with far more ease than try to steal him. The level of damage we can cope with in our partners is in the eye of the beholder-- but this is why I knew I had to get the fuck out of there and erase myself, because I was going to hurt an innocent party, due to the fact that other site users hurt, or were provoking me beyond what I can stand these days.
Yet my loneliness is still overweening. An online "regular" is better than the sheen of oils on my brother's psychotic adolescent bewilderment, cutting him off from normal human discourse forever. It would never be the same after that. He was a hardcore drug user. If this is what my attitude is like starving for nicotine, then my brother off PCP should have been shot dead, then and there, as a fugitive on the run, spaced out, in the shame he brought to our family name, his face riddled with tweaker acne. He did not simply rape an anonymous party, but one of my father's tenants: If I rebelled against doing penny articles for Clarity Media, I was not going to give them to the nanny state mentality of Mike and Melissa for nothing, and was cruelly harsh with her, telling her Mike was a bozo fuck. That's mean, but I shall never, ever make the Yabberz News mistake again.
The Hortons did not do anything overtly illegal in their solicitation. This was not a case of the state police tracking my brother down like an animal, a script straight of a seventies exploitation film, which is what my indelible memory of his face in that detention facility compares it to, an episode of The Fugitive. All the Hortons did was find my twitter account; perhaps in the belief that a raging bull with tits would help their traffic ratio; I said to myself what the fuck is this? And made successive errors in judgment, for which I am now shamelessly trolling the couple and their community regulars.
Just like Mark Johnson, I can strike below the belt, and I was going to tell Karen Lee Bartlett her husband was an annoying voluble ass, just to be cruel. She was probably checking me out, because her motor moving epileptic spouse gave me what I thought I needed: chatter. If she was worried, she needn't have been. I would have abused BridgeToursJade with far more ease than try to steal him. The level of damage we can cope with in our partners is in the eye of the beholder-- but this is why I knew I had to get the fuck out of there and erase myself, because I was going to hurt an innocent party, due to the fact that other site users hurt, or were provoking me beyond what I can stand these days.
Yet my loneliness is still overweening. An online "regular" is better than the sheen of oils on my brother's psychotic adolescent bewilderment, cutting him off from normal human discourse forever. It would never be the same after that. He was a hardcore drug user. If this is what my attitude is like starving for nicotine, then my brother off PCP should have been shot dead, then and there, as a fugitive on the run, spaced out, in the shame he brought to our family name, his face riddled with tweaker acne. He did not simply rape an anonymous party, but one of my father's tenants: If I rebelled against doing penny articles for Clarity Media, I was not going to give them to the nanny state mentality of Mike and Melissa for nothing, and was cruelly harsh with her, telling her Mike was a bozo fuck. That's mean, but I shall never, ever make the Yabberz News mistake again.
Wednesday, June 22, 2016
On the record
I think I am going to abandon Yabberz News. It depresses me. Gawker does not depress me. I know I'm boring you, but not trying to, as I wish to find interactive sites I enjoy, and I let myself fall into the Horton sandpit, my belief persisting that I was there years ago and wisely left. I am really not sure what drives me away. I am mean, and without nicotine, threatening violence is the natural proclivity of intense pain. The word fuck is simply a monotone of saltiness. Yabberz is mean, but I only rarely see my bad day virulence on it and really dislike it. A European emigre, American born black, decided to follow me on the site, and in shaded euphemism I tried to tell her I was racist, but it would have hurt her unnecessarily. I'll sleep on it, but dislike the fact of its tendency toward binary opposition-- but this expatriate, Mickey, who seems to have her own triggers, disliking Mark Johnson as intensely as I do, happily, said Yabberz is
- Low traffic, which seems obvious
- crude
- mean, like twitter
Sunday, June 5, 2016
Sycophancy in Japanese Homoeroticism
"First comes dealing with the pain and loss,"-- the Josie Byzek I barely knew
If Blogger itself hasn't succeeded in subduing me, (not entirely), the fact that my twitter following slowly and ever so persistently grows might, despite the fact that every once in awhile I need to go off, mindful of the fact I have new eyes watching but I just spent well over two hours formatting and revising, with the alliance in charge perhaps having little to absolutely no idea how badly I need money in my proclivity toward cavies, falling on my knees in my subconscious saying please like me pay me.
It doesn't work like that, and those of us in the business know it. I'm only partially baffled that I broke ranks by getting into The Philadelphia Inquirer metro section in 05 on my second try and cannot, or could not, break ranks into the City Paper daily. It was not personal. I know that. I'd telephone and say how bout this? It was always "no, I don't think so," Patrick Rapa, primarily. I am sad they have been bowed over due to online advertising, but how much of an alternate voice they were remains unclear. A really old turn of the century piece about those suffering gender identity issues, cutting off their testicles in a bathtub, was Gawker type material, but how much did it serve the city's need to know? I had no idea the daily went down nearly nine months back.
Now I'll never get in it, which may be why I do not want to get on Melissa Nguyen Horton's bad side, with this being one of her thumbnail photos. In one of my puzzled moment episodes, she followed me on her little darling of a news community. What was I supposed to do, block the site owner where an unhappy quadriplegic complains? I followed her back, pondering Mario Puzo's sexual fascination with Asian lesbianism, or the snapshot I use of the saintly whore going off in an unholy triage of power cock with executives and madame, and our mainly one sided discussions in email. Melissa doesn't need to assert her Asian (new age?) identity, but she'll collect damaged strays like me, keep an eye on us. Maybe she just followed me on her portal to say "I'm human too, as fallible as you are, Joanne," but the truth is, I do not really have to time to break a sweat and produce professional quality reads on Yabberz, aside from hating Mark Johnson. I urgently need dental surgery, and it might kill me if I don't work on a solution. Medicaid isn't going to pick up a tab which could run in the thousands, and I am not sure where to go. The Temple dental clinic tortured me in my late 20's, private practices cannot help me, and I cannot get into the operating theater. All an abscess has to do is travel to my brain, and then I will not have to wrestle the moral issues any longer.
If Blogger itself hasn't succeeded in subduing me, (not entirely), the fact that my twitter following slowly and ever so persistently grows might, despite the fact that every once in awhile I need to go off, mindful of the fact I have new eyes watching but I just spent well over two hours formatting and revising, with the alliance in charge perhaps having little to absolutely no idea how badly I need money in my proclivity toward cavies, falling on my knees in my subconscious saying please like me pay me.
It doesn't work like that, and those of us in the business know it. I'm only partially baffled that I broke ranks by getting into The Philadelphia Inquirer metro section in 05 on my second try and cannot, or could not, break ranks into the City Paper daily. It was not personal. I know that. I'd telephone and say how bout this? It was always "no, I don't think so," Patrick Rapa, primarily. I am sad they have been bowed over due to online advertising, but how much of an alternate voice they were remains unclear. A really old turn of the century piece about those suffering gender identity issues, cutting off their testicles in a bathtub, was Gawker type material, but how much did it serve the city's need to know? I had no idea the daily went down nearly nine months back.
Now I'll never get in it, which may be why I do not want to get on Melissa Nguyen Horton's bad side, with this being one of her thumbnail photos. In one of my puzzled moment episodes, she followed me on her little darling of a news community. What was I supposed to do, block the site owner where an unhappy quadriplegic complains? I followed her back, pondering Mario Puzo's sexual fascination with Asian lesbianism, or the snapshot I use of the saintly whore going off in an unholy triage of power cock with executives and madame, and our mainly one sided discussions in email. Melissa doesn't need to assert her Asian (new age?) identity, but she'll collect damaged strays like me, keep an eye on us. Maybe she just followed me on her portal to say "I'm human too, as fallible as you are, Joanne," but the truth is, I do not really have to time to break a sweat and produce professional quality reads on Yabberz, aside from hating Mark Johnson. I urgently need dental surgery, and it might kill me if I don't work on a solution. Medicaid isn't going to pick up a tab which could run in the thousands, and I am not sure where to go. The Temple dental clinic tortured me in my late 20's, private practices cannot help me, and I cannot get into the operating theater. All an abscess has to do is travel to my brain, and then I will not have to wrestle the moral issues any longer.
Saturday, June 4, 2016
Simenon's Shrews
"I don't know who Donald Trump represents, other than himself."-- Gwen Ifill
I came on to research Thiel's battle with Gawker, and had previously supposed the outing issue had died a quiet death with Law and Order serials, and tend to believe there is more to it than that, even if a California leftist asshole like Mark Johnson doesn't make for much of an enemy does he, with sop driveling posts like this, linked twice for your edification. He's not much, in terms of an intellectual challenge, and attacked me personally because I gave him access to my work. I can assure you that the cliche about angry liberals having a terrifying mien holds true when it comes to this deadbeat want to be Beverly Hills shuttle cock, a lightweight not even worth the pleasure of a snapped vertebra, so linear and literal minded.
A broken bone must not make for much of a sound effect. Other than radicalized surgeries, I dislocated a knuckle and popped it back in on my own. I am not interested in writing about Thiel and Gawker. I'm not even positive I'd be the type of tattle writer who could offer Gawker any relative value, as I can't pitch my way into City Paper, and I live here, but billionaires having absolute media control troubles me, none the less, much more so than tabloid tactics toward content generation, so, if I have picked a side, learning that writing with passion, from the heart, earns the disenfranchised the wrath of giants, seems to me a cause for concern, even if I'm a hate crime in waiting not exploiting the sick and the deaf, using ALS and spina bifida and the autistic and addicts as shields. It runs through the blood of every procedural, from Poe to Simenon, Dick Wolf, Mankell, Beck. Codename Hunter, of course, puts an Ironside spin on paraplegia, but I'm not into it, just as Maigret and the Old Lady illustrates the great Belgian chaffing under his own formula, as its little more than an old woman's vanity above her station wreaking havoc on the class from which she climbed. I am caught in the middle, not knowing how to play powerful interests to end my life with the quality of peace I feel I deserve, but despising the radical left Johnson professes to espouse while revealing in misogyny toward me because I'm neither pretty, nor placid Ideologues are rarely what they appear to be.
I came on to research Thiel's battle with Gawker, and had previously supposed the outing issue had died a quiet death with Law and Order serials, and tend to believe there is more to it than that, even if a California leftist asshole like Mark Johnson doesn't make for much of an enemy does he, with sop driveling posts like this, linked twice for your edification. He's not much, in terms of an intellectual challenge, and attacked me personally because I gave him access to my work. I can assure you that the cliche about angry liberals having a terrifying mien holds true when it comes to this deadbeat want to be Beverly Hills shuttle cock, a lightweight not even worth the pleasure of a snapped vertebra, so linear and literal minded.
A broken bone must not make for much of a sound effect. Other than radicalized surgeries, I dislocated a knuckle and popped it back in on my own. I am not interested in writing about Thiel and Gawker. I'm not even positive I'd be the type of tattle writer who could offer Gawker any relative value, as I can't pitch my way into City Paper, and I live here, but billionaires having absolute media control troubles me, none the less, much more so than tabloid tactics toward content generation, so, if I have picked a side, learning that writing with passion, from the heart, earns the disenfranchised the wrath of giants, seems to me a cause for concern, even if I'm a hate crime in waiting not exploiting the sick and the deaf, using ALS and spina bifida and the autistic and addicts as shields. It runs through the blood of every procedural, from Poe to Simenon, Dick Wolf, Mankell, Beck. Codename Hunter, of course, puts an Ironside spin on paraplegia, but I'm not into it, just as Maigret and the Old Lady illustrates the great Belgian chaffing under his own formula, as its little more than an old woman's vanity above her station wreaking havoc on the class from which she climbed. I am caught in the middle, not knowing how to play powerful interests to end my life with the quality of peace I feel I deserve, but despising the radical left Johnson professes to espouse while revealing in misogyny toward me because I'm neither pretty, nor placid Ideologues are rarely what they appear to be.
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