Depreciation

The Queen of the house represents the Christian virtue of mercy, which is different from the equitable justice allegorized in Britomart. Whereas equity returns to philosophical principles in order to ensure the defendant receives his proper due, mercy offers freely to redeem offenders who sincerely repeat their crimes.-- Poetry Foundation's rehabilitative sympathy for The Faerie Queene

My sister-in-law cannot convert my Office 7 files not in the cloud, and I droop. The only way I know how to defeat this on my own is to find my Office 7 CD, which is hopefully somewhere, hack my product key, install, then open said files in Office 365, and the only human being who probably desires to help me solve this with all his heart is a paraprofessional with whom my lifespan is alarmingly eclipsed, so hurry, get it all in, and there are worse things in life than misdirected denial, but a decent way to leash a man, to my surprise, is a thousand dollar piece of technical hardware. It is nothing new to wake up and feel rebellion with biology. Robert, in messenger: "I can't believe I'm 67!" "Forever young!" The dowager retorted in equal vein, as I go stomping around with I'm 56. But I am 56, and whether certain lines are blurred between regressive care, I was onto that as early as his first Wednesday with me, and something more, I remain restless, my retrenchment not least among the reasons for that, to be polite about what I mean, but you should know already. I mean, this man took a risk, because I wept, he wanted to console me, just as I've taken risks of late, running through every rationale while he takes me to school on the court. I do not want to be sexually manipulated because of depression and cynicism simply out of a misplaced fiduciary duty on his part, and yet we've been so close to taking each other that I am not simply frustrated, more than that, perplexed. He trusts me thus far not to can his ass and says he is in heat for various areas where we all know our erogenous zones live, and I'm his fucking job at the same time. He's guardian, family, brother, and yes, a man in my life who outlasted my particular talent for being unforgiving. And this, despite the fact I cannot cut him down. There are 1001 pathways to that but his zeal is a bit forcibly sealing my jaws and silencing my tongue-- not about the heavy petting-- but him, because he's the rare embodiment of a good man. I've always wanted that, but not due to his economic necessity. My cousin, equally scarred, asked why am I afraid if I believe I'm in love with him. I'd think the answer would be obvious. If and when he's ready to move on, who gets screwed, whether or not that literally happens? But as of yet, I am not sure I've grafted my own hybrid of apples and oranges. 
I'm 56, losing ground to technical folly and not a few unexpected ground balls. Do I wrest out some kind of commitment from an inner city minority that will make me self-conscious for the rest of my life? The anarchist in me isn't dead, trust me there. 

Angry Savant

I recovered one of my newer non fiction revisions from Submittable, and if I'm able to do that, I must be doing something obviously dense with the files Tom took off my hard drive. Now, particularly, I do not have the funds to spare to show up my illiteracy with code. Maybe if I struggle with conversion online this will solve the problem. Yes, I am terrified. Technically, as a legal matter, I can be homeless, but not functionally, and last week, I nearly had a stroke, close to following Petty, whose hoarse baritone recalls itself, but the writer in me has risen back up, because what and how Debra Horne is threatening me with is ridiculous. I want to be clear, a landlord has the right to kick me out for bad hygiene. But they do not. They want to put me away for saying no, for being angry, crucified by the liberal left. I have to die like anyone, except Peter Thiel, he man faggot, but I will decide what those terms are, not HHS or some half witted crisis manager from the corporate office in Montgomery County. We have to stop doing this. Please. Heed me.

Terminals Heir

What tyrant daughters do to their fathers; the man is 81 years old, married to a community college colleague of my mere, a woman with a caustic upper bite, one on which I might have been trained in my own levels of bitumen, if I did not know better, and at our respective ages life might be more sedate, unless that is another fiction. Yes, Marvel Inhumans, evidence of short term memory lapses, struggle to recall the title. A few minutes of the opening were lost, but its grandiosity resides in my mostly bad fantastical efforts in a similar parallel. Black Bolt is a recognized face, and Lock Jaw is a routable infant, though I’m probably not going to have the luxury of following gods battle for hierarchy over and above its anthesis on ABC’s schedule. I want to ask you why I always let myself get whipped, but no one reading this would dare ask me to examine my own pathological shimmer: I only liked 2 aides out of 7 out of at least the dozen plus who waltzed in and out in nine years, one bolting after I had a bout with Chris the blind on the telephone when he lived near Harvard, “going off,” in the popular lingo, adjustment disorder spurting the vein, while Medusa is free to get a decent gut thrust on the islands. This woman, the aide, orange hair dye, pleaded, “I think you need help,” but what I did to myself only deepened the injury, like an Archimedes’ screw, slicing shaved steak, and at 1:15 eastern standard time, turbulence is a pebble, with a bad bruise on my right bicep. Had the Friday police used force, that certainly would have been a You Tube uproar video: I have never put this Quantum in manual, do not know how, neither would the patrolmen, and they would have had to drag or haul me out of the seat, subduing me into a real incident, because even if I had not struggled, my stress is obdurate as is, and I’m posting to Blogger! I can feel my bones as thin as a wing, and at the same time, I am a granite woman, obdurate, to what end? How can I be respected now, praised for doing decent work when I cannot activate 365 properly to convert Office 2007? Then again, 40k, in views, may not mean what I believe it does, and I don’t have to assert I did not know how deeply hate could go for Trudy and her colleagues, do I? It isn’t entirely pointless. The revenge I felt toward Jewish supervisor, while intense, was a mourning grievance, but not this. Not after how they keep sicking at me, after hours stealth attacks, after years and seven previous managerial follies, my criminal victimizations. Since it isn’t a joke, and not hyperbole, I cannot say it. I know despite what the woman has done she isn’t worth it. Linda, the supervisor, was a heroine, a leader worth following who broke my heart, no Freudian strings attached. This Richardson, no, she is malevolent, and I’m already in enough hot water, but I’m starting to comprehend motive as a decent woman should not—perhaps I should lie down.

Drums Along The Mohawk

"But we won." --Henry Fonda

I begin to take a dim view of IT technicians as a whole. They should be able to assist me better than they do, whether it’s Geek Squad or PhillyTechGuy or the vendor Tom Cook who did not do what he said he was going to do. These men can walk, they have automobiles. I never stiffed them, and it is always the same game of chicken: I still view myself as a failed scholar. They see a bull dyke in rags, I suppose, one that shares the same urgency as Constance Sumner, but in a different context. I need something else for these last months with my cognitive ability still intact, and if I cannot get it, then mocha bug bran women like building manager Trudy Richardson will have a self-fulfilling prophecy. “We don’t know each other,” she says. Fuck that. She is a nigger fascist as sure as I’m road rage ready to die in authority’s restraints, but if black arrogance has been particular, illegally cruel, on the other end of the spectrum, Caucasians aren’t really giving me appropriate levels of support. Cook has to make a living, but so do I, and I’m in a bit of a bind, one which he claims he can unravel, but he should have done this the first time. I cannot do everything by myself, and though I don’t expect social media to fall over itself coming to my aid, my viewers aren’t of much use either. I mean, I have taken my share of adversity, still forced to live with fringe homosexuals who think 60 style protests is a panacea for institutional medical care, and I’ve taken my share, getting gob smacked like Jody Foster in the insidious opening to The Silence of the Lambs, but I haven’t been devastated by natural disaster (though governmental incompetency may be a sufficient substitute) and should take heart, and work around this obstacle. Except it is my life’s work, and I am still trying to compete in the mainstream, and ta ta, one laptop death takes a fucking month out of my life, when I should be in bed. But my biological rhythms liven between midnight and five am, so I write as if I was still pulling an all nighter for exams. This is my way of being as skeptical of the right as I am of the left. What good is it if no one hears the narrative? 

I cannot claim to have a personal relationship with libertarians. Locally, John you used my name in print with feigned offense, he knows me best, but there is friction between us, as my Roman malevolence truly did widen his eyes, the not cool aging invalid who would delight in guerrilla warfare. If I had the ability to command, there is my solace, in the fanaticism of destruction. In lieu of Apocalypse Now, my father opens his checkbook, but this is tantamount to giving the Ebola virus an aspirin, and I do not see Richard Spencer letting my Machiavellian intellect usurp the niche of his ethnographic conceits, but, absent that personal relationship, tracking men like the muted Tony Stiles and politicos like Austin Petersen interests me. I knew of Austin by name long before social media, and I said to myself, researching him, years ago, so this is a radical, then subsequently discovered this is not the case. Austin isn’t a radical, but my blood lust, that is radical. I am very hard in certain aspects, and agree with Austin’s healthcare privilege view because he is right. All you have to do is observe. Claiming healthcare “rights” obliterates the quality of care issue, and with all medical resources limited as they are, Jimmy Carter’s cancer treatments and McCain’s poor prognosis glioma take away from others. There may be no direct link to my quality of care chain, but nonetheless, it is still a triage of association. Men of stature in 80^th and 90^th decades limit preventative resources for others with more optimal survival, and I may take a swipe at hard policy posts as time allows. That I vaguely recollect Roy Moore's removal from the Alabama bench at all is a mystery.

Paul Martel Figments

When I first mentioned Unfaithful on this account many years ago, I had not fully absorbed Adrian Lyne’s emphasis, and the camera’s focus is one which grows fuller over time, even if the script is nothing we haven’t seen before in relation to discontent and betrayal. The exposition truly functions as a literary device, such as when Martinez glances at the knife on his table, briefly considering whether or not he would need it for defense, or the opening wind storm, all of it. We’re being asked why we get set into habits, routines, comforts, and then shatter them for another card in the deck, another card which leads us back to the same interior landscape. Familiarity breeds contempt, and this is what we kill ourselves over when we’re not engaged in killing ourselves due to ideology. Did I get the ending the first time? A pipe dream straight out of Jane Austen’s comedic moral teachings? Not as fully as on a third capture, with the Sumner’s knowledge that the bough was fully splintered, and undone, sitting there at the police station, all that was needed nothing more than a reality crime drama to reenact the reverberating scandal and consequences to follow. But this telescopic focus isn’t reality, so much as an American copy of a French template, something Gere has done before, simply to remind us that perspective, and point of view function like an acid reflux treatment. What was Constance’s trade off? Freedom to breathe, akin to my knowledge that rolling into thin air, away from my hostile building owner, means merely a foreshortening of the inevitable, my work stupidly locked away because I wasn’t careful enough? Didn’t utilize cloud services to best practices? I don’t feel like telephoning Tom Cook, who undoubtedly isn’t going to go out of his way to restore me to my history without feeling inconvenienced.

I just spoke to him and encapsulated the problem. He had another call. Me? I barely have any food, but what difference does that make, as I’m barely eating. Yes, 365 is nice, but I have to relearn some things, and if I do refinance another machine, I’ll have to relearn that, while we’re all busy scoring points, or consoling ourselves through the images of what the perfect bourgeoise life is or isn’t without hunger, tripping through your kitchen in bare feet. Paraplegics may retain ambulatory memories. I never knew them to begin with. He is my age, this Cook. Perhaps I should bathe, throw on a pair of slacks. He may stop by again tomorrow, because my ability to understand telephone voices is in the decline. This I cannot cure, but neither can I compel sources to respond online. I can hear my debt load increase, the one thing which hasn’t changed. Cash registers, storage and retrieval of promissory notes.

Hysteria

If I threaten the technician who did the hard drive extraction that isn't going to get me very far, but I'm going to have to call him about debugging, and either or sit here most of this morning trying  to convert my files. I cannot rebuild my publication history from scratch and  expect it not to cost me, as it did moving from Diamond Park to Riverside, as it did with each subsequent computer failure and upgrade; for the time being, my credit card company sailed in, doubling my limit, but this is scant comfort if my accomplishments for the last five years are simply erased. Fault it as you may, but writing has had to become my life. There is nothing else. The deceased Frank Versanti, (or Versante) claimed he was in love with me after he proposed, in monosyllabic fashion, but my interpretation of his enthusiasm was his lewdness was victorious, something which repulsed me, the gluttony written all over his face. His lust to have my asymmetrical breasts to grope wasn't my idea of healthy desire between two middle aged people settling for each other. As much as I tried to go through with it twelve years ago, I couldn't, at 42 to 43, settle for an ape, even if I never quite rescinded my claim on his obligation to me; hence, you'd figure, since I am so emotionally fragile, that I'd be on Amber's side over that of Woods, a fading personality who would take one look at me and imitate the nascent verbal losses of John Irving's Reagan era characters:

Psychic predicted #Democrat lawmaker would be ridiculed by millions. #Genius https://t.co/frxah1mRXu

— James Woods (@RealJamesWoods) September 22, 2017

Instead, I am with the hot headed old man, even rather sympathetic to his usurpation of youthful women. Lauren Southern isn't wrong, after all. The girl inside of us recognizes the snake in the grass. We even like it. My newfound appreciation of James and his caustic bitr is not the flush of a fan many times removed. He is a known quantity, whether or not my warped body could please him sexually. It is merely a clinical question. Could I satisfy a seventy year old man whose name would elevate my stature? I have no idea, but Woods is worth settling for, not an illiterate spic from the Bronx. 

As a technical matter, since I can now write, offline, though be it from scratch, for the moment, I am less fragile than before, but intend to be dead before the Commonwealth forces me into this fortress, despite the gooey social media policy on suicidal outcry. My whole life has amounted to failing against the grip of regimentation on my throat. I know what well balanced libertarians would say: stop feeling sorry, train yourself to keep the appropriate distance from nursing aide swine. Recognize you cannot cure your pain. Okay, but what do you know of 33 years of case management, aggressive senility, housing authority drywall?

Phosphorus Spots

This is the problem with battling a life on whatever entitlement system you can to name. The crisis such as I am having now, these are exceedingly difficult to manage. I have taken a huge hit, over two hundred dollars in additional expenses, with my static life, in an environment which was never one of my own choosing, I can barely nibble any food, remembering my mother coming to Ridley Senior High, where I was parked, as always, in the administrative offices, guidance counselor, perhaps, with the SSI paperwork. I was 16, and had I the benefit of hindsight, to be forthright, I might have stopped my education then and there, with the federal welfare stranglehold. Yesterday, I viewed, come to think of it, one of the last late Law & Order episodes with Waterston and Roache, and the cattish actress who was ADA Connie. The abortion doctor assassination, which, for Wolf's writing team, was powerfully done, in terms of authenticity, and like some of those genetically doomed babies, I should have been allowed to die, instead of incubated, although, even in the incubator, I was supposed to die. Even premature, perhaps it was my destiny, to terrorize ableism. I do not know.

I am still here, of course, but it is too much for me. I may not kill a minority building manager or any of her residents, or a lesbian, or my former supervisor, but I am clinging to the escarpment hidden by rushing waterfalls, and can see my psyche, a spastic psyche, riddled with bullet holes, on some derivative of Thorazine, little more than a maniac, like so many Inglis residents. Yet this L&O episode challenged my extermination of the species as effectively, if not more so, than all the Catholic accounts I follow, and, if I did not know better, Pope Francis might have been tweeting directly to me earlier this morning. For once, this socialist Argentine, of whom I am diffident, reached me as Santo Padre; yet I refuse, like Anne Rice, to flip flop, fall on my knees, and give in to my occasional awareness of a devout fervor. Why? When I did believe, I was too self-conscious to accept all this damned nonsense, the holy spirit, the tongues. I dared to laugh at God, as Umberto Eco raised so dramatically in The Name of the Rose, three years before I ever graced a campus, I laughed at God, and I feel the import of that sacrilegious defiance, and thus force mystery and materialism to co-habituate in my Catholic Atheism. Better to reject divine character than to accept and damn yourself for knowing you can never love it, indeed, hate it, which probably matters little.

This Office 365 download is agonizingly slow, but I threw in the towel  on installing my older 2007 version, and have yet to see if it will take on this expensive, but still ten year old laptop, my feet swollen, tinnitus swirling in my eardrum, powerless, squalid woman, desperate to restore her work, sweating fish oil through her pores. The high school secretary, she had a predication for Sidney Sheldon. I too, find Rage of Angels moves along at a pleasingly taut, climatic pace. Even just sitting here, oblivious to section 202 housing hostilities and jeopardy, I'm suffering, yowling at my poor baby brother for surcease, gratified to engage Gretchen again, even playing along with Facebook humor, I might as well be a writhing succubus: the download is complete, but I have to go to bed, with so little to spare, like a box of food for little kimmy.

Ronstadt Data Lacerations

Astute enough to save my documents and revisions to my external drive, that much I believed I could do, and do not know what was lost in translation. For those not published, this is a visceral pain that creates ulcers for writers. My fantasy story was taking shape, soon to be finished at about 7,500mm. It and other newer word documents may still be on the HP and I am going to wait for transfer cable, or track down a real Creasy and stick enough C4 up the monied rectum of Bill Gates for my own creative destruction. I still really like Man on Fire and Denzel in it with Scott's soft catholic sympathy, and we're still turning this empathy of my own for imperfect vehicles whose flaws provide a pathway toward metaphysical consolation. If my old Dell was a well behaved boy, and the HP a bit of a bitch, this Toshiba is Dexter on an indiscriminate rampage. If I boot the HP now my sanity would be in jeopardy, and so I am holding off, sure I mismanaged Office 07 in some way. This lady may be a toffee Starbucks version of Madonna, but she has nothing on Ronstadt's range.