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.

The upside of facetious

I sometimes lose track, due to seasonal changes, of the additional torments impaction inflicts, and feel easier now. Wednesday morning I thought my symptoms were indicative of stroke, when they were actually reduced diet binding to phlegm, perhaps reduced mammary tissue resiliency. I've lost weight, but not like a happier exercise infomercial. I do not know why I pay any attention to the Social Security Administration. It auto-mailed me me to review my benefit statement approximately 14 days ago. I ignored the prompt, and I'm wasting my usage on mild ire. With that Medicare deductible removed, my monthly budget would be less strenuous, despite the age and condition of the Jazzy. I have not yet acted, mainly because by eight thirty am night owls feather the nest, but I may act in any case, and live my narrowing quality time as I please, eschewing the single payer option, according to my beliefs.

I'm more libertarian than I realized, but we'll leave that for later. I believe I intend to open and monetize a Niume account Friday evening. I will not write "death to faggots," or discuss my pain at independent living centers-- but for some reason, I need to be just as much an esoteric wonk, and shift from deadly tyrannical quadriplegic to archaeologist, of a sort. I'll just give it a try, we'll see. If I fail or get booted, we've been there before. Not the end of the world, nor does this account necessarily have to cease, though rousing Google's ire and living to tell about it is no small feat. But this is the thing: I've exhausted most of what can be asserted about broken bodies and aesthetics. The rest is nuance. Nothing wrong with that, but after 8 years, and behaving like a mini-Idi, perhaps I can take another tack.

For the record, I hate those whom I've felt betrayed by, and when I told Von Schmetterling's caretaker that I'd take him out, during Indian Summer, I was fairly dispassionate. I know all that such an action would achieve is exactly what the building manager desires, my incarceration, as in not her problem any longer, but unipolar activists need to learn that they hurt others unfairly, and Erik's battle with the government nearly took my life, just as Linda Dezenski's mind games with me online did 17 years ago, which is what makes Turkey Day an uneasy time of year: major depressive episode here, a deceased mother there, an intra building renovation that killed its tenants, but hey, what's not to forgive, yah? Oh, yes, Sean Malone had me clapping, in vigorous is he fucking married fashion (I will not write fucking at Niume, maybe they will let me type coitus or what) and he had me clapping just until his conclusion, which asserts expected courtesies, but let me chew on it.⧬