Combat With Maggot Larva

A nozzle shot of bleach corrodes the exoskeleton of flies as effectively as insecticides, without posing harm to kitty-- the home and garden journalist I am never going to be.

The dowager was formerly able to locate Louis Dinapoli on LinkedIn, with his sharp wizened Italian face pinched like many faces beset with osteogenesis imperfecta and the romance of fracturing our skeletal engineering to get to the marrow, but not anymore. It may or may not mean he is dead, my former neighbor, colleague, classmate. He handled brittle bone disease by always pissing me off talking dirty over the phone. Louis and the dowager attended the same segregated grade school, closed long ago, and meeting him again at Liberty in the nineties was at first a surprise side benefit, but fatal confidence misplaced in Linda took care of that. I did not want to sleep with Louis. I broke his nose playing Stratego in his living room, and remorse only takes you so far when no conscious malevolence is involved in the mishap, but Louie haunted me a long time, and I started dreaming about his cast binding breaks, and the Jewish princess may have claimed she was too busy to read my conversations (sometimes overanxious due to economic desperation, which, to go against me, helped no one), but enough seeped in that she made sure he would wind up making fun of me. In confidence, I told brass bitch he would have been a useful Safe Male, as once endearingly categorized by Cybill, whose diminished appearances in public are felt, when dowager pauses to compare the Willis rocket to Shepherd's gin fizz. Louie's deliberate willingness to ostracize me in public hurt like a mother, and this was on Linda, not me, regardless of what she told him. I wanted to approach Louis about occasionally doing the social scene au pair, and instead, once Linda and I fell out, I literally took death by a thousand cuts by my peers, then indifferent abuse at the hands of Liberty's coordinators and attendants, exceedingly difficult to stand up to when in a state of shock for as long as I was, institutional disparagement. Where else would my vitriol have sprouted roots?

Though I may not know where to find him now, you all know his face, impish, wicked, something like Nabil, grey toothed, barbed, vicious.

Poster Child Left

I am counting on your support.-- every political email transmission in the country

Some of the international members of the disabled community have found my accounts through social media and attempted to offer support, but let me explain something: No matter how many documentaries on public television Hockenberry appears in, what is rarely discussed is the incalculable damage the disabled community does to itself. I cannot access legal assistance for my trauma in part because that very assistance is tied to Liberty Resources. Thomas Earle, the legally blind variation of the sissy caricature created by the studio system, had not applied to be the center's director when I was the pawn eliminated in the Queen's opening, but he was shocked when I met with him about it, and did he act in any capacity to help me heal from what was the duress of a criminally toxic social shaming? No. No one associated with independent living in Philadelphia has lifted a finger for me, and this is what prominent figures like Hockenberry never touch. The mechanics of his sexual performance? Those can be discussed, under the lid of the magic pill debate. He uses injections; this is common knowledge in the culture, and this is what the Limda Dezenski of 18 years ago would assert: I was asking questions, so she wasn't trying to hurt me by going off on her orgasms in her marital bed. She was trying to help me assert myself. I have already discussed this, but haven't really conveyed the humiliation I suffered under her subordinates. Louis DiNapoli. There is a name. He was an observer, and saw that Linda was betraying me that day at the picnic. Dozens of people watched Linda do her thing, at my expense, and Louis, who was the center's account controller, made things rather ugly, taunting me with epithets, which is why he saw the writing on the wall, and resigned. He beat the great recession. And with all that's been said, been done, where am I supposed to go? I have absolutely no resources to get myself away, for the sake of my health, none: I have to watch an incomplete transsexual unravel, dying on his criminal activities which hurt many other vulnerable players. Steve Gold? He's a patronizing Jewish pig who runs the disabled in action branch in one of the center's side offices, and stopped Presby from bleeding me dry for their dining service in 2005, which, since the building renovations in 07, have been nearly eliminated. Stick a prayer in the Temple Wall for Philadelphia Jewish lawyers. For those of you across the pond, or up north, in my favorite commonwealth, perhaps you have different systems, a reconciliation process, not here.
If I end up taking my life, it isn't because I want to play finger games with my former supervisor's vagina. Of late, I found my way back to my memories of the 24 year old who wanted to get it on, and she had no inclination for cherries. It is simply some experiences are too much to carry, after so much time. I need to vacate my landlord that badly, over the realization that true desegregation is impossible for certain classes, and cruelty from within is worse than any gamesmanship from celebrity moguls. It isn't that I don't appreciate your outreach, but if you really want to help me, I need representation, one skilled enough to get me admissions of liability, as well as a new place to live. Fixed doesn't shrink away from the debate, but it also doesn't go far enough. It is too difficult to accept that a life long sterile environment in senior living is the best I can do, the brunt of pecking order mockery.

If I am going to groom to go trolling for Pat Toomey this week, I have to make it an early morning, and now believe it was the Australian disabled man who blocked me. I warned him. He made me a job offer in message, probably felt badly about it, or his proposal didn't go through.

Crack Pipes

The opening of the 09 Pippa confused me at first due to still difficult ABC/WPVI reception, not West's direction. Woman directors tend to take more chances with vicious undercuts, and Rebecca's vintage is no exception. Initially I believed Bello, whom I tend to track through the buried anguish in those almond eyes, was the female lead, but I sorted the three blonds out before Arkin ran decrepitude to ground. Alan Arkin has recycled himself in interesting ways as the man who feels "the dirt in his mouth," but unlike my recent sexual appetites for hale septuagenarians, or the sandpaper smoothness  of Jason Beghe (yes, I'd like to fuck the actor in the latest Wolf formula, just as I said in archive), Arkin carries a lizard like repulsion more suited to my distaste for Andie MacDowell. Crush is less chancy than Pippa, but McKay brings us closer to truth about impermanence of human bonds, to find the motif swimming in the undercurrent of a vacant first decade farce.

Linda has her side of the story, my former supervisor. Louise, the detachable Munchkin from the James list (ouch) with whom I stupidly Joanne you stupid fuck became familiar, told me this was confusing--my topic cut into my obsessive, dangerous pain with pongo stick woman. My sister and brother say the same thing about my verves in email. Sometimes this is deliberate, a writer taking chances with fragmentation, and pain. Linda has wiped out many subordinates before me, and the only reason I gained any ground on her is because our breach with each other violated the center's sacred federal mandate, but my posts with so many hints, not only indicate trauma that resets at ground zero of a massive depression, but may leave her vulnerable. Live wire risk, but I want her punished, removed from the center, and compensation for my trauma, knowing full well the trigger, my mental corrosion, is life abuse anguish that she unwittingly made lethal. 

She did what she did in response to me mainly without much thought to it, and I pulled on her. Willpower to shut it down when she was really hurting me might have been the better part of impulse control which broke on me, but I cannot turn it back. If I haul Liberty into court, they will castigate my rather obvious fixation. I know this, but if I do nothing next time she will wind up killing another naive asshole. I did confuse her, but that was my subordination to her, fearful of being more forthright. 

I am one of those, the one who jumps if an alpha like Linda gave me the height, the altitude. A challenge for white chick resolution films. I am unkind to my own passive recipients like Louise. I did not want knowledge of her brittle bones, and regret that I created the situation for termination, which indicates I'm as fraudulent as Limda, on a smaller scale. The only impact I had on the younger woman was to cease the shared experience interchange, but I had to. The interaction became an obligation rather than a desire, and if my trust was destroyed by real people, her OI wasn't any guarantee of safe harbor. Had she wanted creative writing emulation, I might have reconsidered.

I haven't had sexual intercourse since 1997, angry with the husband for leaving me vulnerable; he neither cared nor had enough time. Maybe you can understand why Linda's voice preening about convulsions with such self satisfaction is still an emotional scourge.