The Day Would Be A Lot of Highway

The feud kicked off after Carrey posted an original that he made, depicting the execution of Mussolini alongside his mistress, Clara Petacci.

Caption rightfully goes to Northam's repository of equally stark satirical interludes.

Before I go on with more integral matters, let me buttress a wound licking moment and yowl that I lost a potential novelist online friend, Shayna Grissom, because I engaged in my usual delight of contention braggadocio in the discovery that Alessandra Mussolini was a living facet of history, and I almost couldn’t not defend her against a farcical jackass like Jim Carrey. To me this is fascinating, that while I’m here on Blogger pondering the many roots and branches of Italy’s indispensable cultural legacies, Mussolini’s granddaughter is actually live on social media! I very nearly groveled and decided this would amount to little more than an irritant, and so went after Carrey, whom none of us like, for his hard joke about Benito’s death. It was lacking in tact, his cartoon, contributing nothing to anti-statist tensions. I only really use Facebook as an outlet, or for a question, but Shayna cut me off, and yes, I felt it, one again reaching for tentative rapport. She did a shout out for a volunteer to review her agent letters, I offered to help, was happy for her novel, and here we are, after following each other perhaps less than a year. Fragile suburban housewives, I am on my last legs, and get shafted by her neediness and insecurity, and none of this had anything to do with her, her husband, or the death of her sister-in-law. That tweet, if hers, may have been when I first paid her individuality any notice. I’d really like not to be dying by myself and get a hug by someone other than a jamboree jigger getting paid to serenade me into the Twilight Zone. I invested in Shayna’s validation, and now, I’ve paid, but if Alessandra allows me to stay on her feed, maybe I can get a nice essay out of it; I am not sure how much I can assume about my strength, taxed as it is. There is no giving up, mind you. A home for cripples would simply torture me. I either can take it on my own, figure out a foolproof exit valve, or take an institutional technician’s abuse. Those, as it stands, are my options, as my bridge to via support caved in a while back. The current caregiver, ever helpful, suggested I ask Shayna for a token fee, the same Shayna who raised her voice against censoring YA novelists. Uh huh. Any reason why I should try to keep placating this tyranny of female centric herd dynamic?

Richard III, in Mammary

My problem is this, and I have posted about it before, from time to time: I do not want to have to publish simply for free anymore through the small presses. Cannot afford it, but I am admittedly off my game, not that one failed article idea means I should stop pitching, or even that the idea itself was wrong, and I may need to utilize travel time to do some ground research, and give the nice editor a reboot at a later date, after I make a medical outline, screaming while I rip out my hair; my confidence has dwindled, entangled in my anger with you know what and who, but this goes deeper than her and their violations. It is panic at what it will take me to get back in the door with old clips, the clock running on my savings, and I cannot simply tie my hopes on contests for my few strong fiction bits, poetry manuscripts, or even restoring my ad banners, which may be a lost cause. I even found an open managing editor position that I am interested in, yet I do not wish to forsake independent presses entirely.

No, will not tell you where, but it has been open for some time, and I may break a sweat over it for nought, but will likely take the five hours necessary to make a cv package; the good news is I finished a memoir, not quite as playful as Death at a Funeral, which makes Peter Dinklage more interesting still, about my mother and her horse; it is going to a paying market, and I do not know if I have enough time to turn it into a story for a contest deadline which is yawning, if I can work that fast, or have a chance to win. The British just have a way with comedy of manners, and the defecation scene in the above mentioned was very true to life about incontinence and impaired mobility. My decision to fight back against the hell Liberty Resources has put me through may have come too late, we'll see, but engaging the battle has liberated my ability to really return to working again. Leaving this landlord for something less regimental will be the positive cure, but I do not know if my window for that has viable currency.