Septic Enzymes

What dire offence from am'rous causes springs-- Alexander Pope

What I’ve spent most of the last 72 hours doing is a perverse form of digital housekeeping, accusing someone named Godwin Bowen of stalking me through multiple user accounts, although I didn’t quite phrase the indictment this way in our brief direct message conflict. For all that I know of online predators, this could go as far back as Mawson Dave and his Syrian relief efforts, these persistent private greetings trying to alleviate my duress in a majority minority city, or maybe people are making fun of me in the cesspool of social media sewage. I am not looking for more cyber sex adventures. What I need is a better quality of intervention than what welfare can offer me, as opposed to the risk of an online sociopath who washed out of the armed forces. In this context, it is remarkable I remember Mawson Dave’s user name at all. In between Mawson and Godwin, I got hit by an alleged Australian widow in Oregon and a French homosexual named Sebastien in Mouelle. Sebastien in Mouelle is 42, looking for a committed relationship with another male. My limited French, mainly utilized to parse Marine Le Pen’s rhetorical flame throwers at normative Parisian liberalism, was appalled. There must be a ground zero in there somewhere, and yet it is Facebook which took the brunt of my pathology, not Twitter. Citing Paul Joseph Watson was merely a pretext for an undulating anger. Visits to the mall of which I no longer have the luxury, second cousins I do not join for zoological strolls, or Tassoni’s video of monk seals in Hawaii. What is all this but an aesthetic list of deprivation for me? I never built those planks of my own immediate family. All that lingers there is an uncouth cop from the Bronx, and he’s dead, so I had enough. Facebook, in the estrangement with my half-brother, is scheduled for deletion, while we leave it to Bloomsberg News to offer minute items, Fatbergs are now clogging pipelines, and as happens, occasionally, I had a massive discharge, and refusing, after midnight, to sit in it, I cut the panty off and got it in the trash. The care worker will not see victory. I’m this close to canceling Medicaid and rolling off, assuming I even have stamina enough to leave the city’s jurisdiction, my death will begin with a staph infection.

John as he is today, my bleeding La Traviata. He prefers that Rocky and Adrianna be aired for Thanksgiving. He talked to my aide on Facebook most of the time. It wasn't a double indemnity I happened to enjoy.

Credulity and Suspension

Allow me to express a momentary displeasure with serials, despite the fact that they've driven the market for narratives since the discovery of the stylus and the evolution of play acting: If you have a mature British woman engaged in bigamous relationships because the bigamy is conveniently transcontinental, why would the British authorities treat the British but illegal husband as legitimate, allowing him to arrive in Hong Kong before informing him he had been duped? I was unconvinced of Anthony Wong's repressed pain as the real Asian husband of the deceased Meg Harris in White Dragon, and can see already the "good" Britons  trying valiantly to get the enigmatic Mandarins to behave themselves without the benefit of Charles George Gordon willingness and ability to apply his better disciplined troops to the matter. Wouldn't I be better off applying myself to the implied reconciliation of  The Upside?

Prison Planet traumatized me Wednesday evening when I was looking to weasel my way into whatever support we can gauge through a thread exchange. Strangely, this always intersects, despondency pierced by triggers through which I am better off not becoming open to the ferocity of fighting back, tearing through me like a lash. There is absolutely no respect for the dignity of life in what this man did, and in the era of a just monarchy he would be put to death for offending the divine. Now try putting the agony this lion experiences in a power chair through which life has been circumscribed from birth. This is why I obscure the obvious, or seem to be posting merely what it pleases me to examine, most of the time. I've nothing left to live for, that full metal jacket burning my lung, rousing my bile and a metallic taste at the back of my throat, artery under my armpit throbbing.

And this? A metropolis with aggressive neon spectrums just a little freer than the homogeneous, and frightening temerity of Beijing.

Emendation Vitae

Scottish newspaper literally saying I gave “guidance” to the shooter. This is completely inaccurate and almost certainly libellous. Please retract immediately. @Daily_Record pic.twitter.com/o5myhwDu9A

— Paul Joseph Watson (@PrisonPlanet) March 17, 2019

The above, and then:

Being involved in a legitimate discussion about the impact of mass migration doesn’t make me a radicalizer of terrorists, just as a Muslim criticising Middle Eastern interventionist wars doesn’t make him a radicalizer of terrorists.

— Paul Joseph Watson (@PrisonPlanet) March 18, 2019

I have no issues with Watson and a quizzling figurine like Candace Owens being who they are. Successful provocateurs are breakaways from the conventional human group dynamic. Candace Owens is a fool with occasional penetrations toward something intelligible. The shooter, now forever nefarious, was able to divine this, and the unfortunate Ms Owens seemed rather panicky in recent tweets, as if desirous of scattering in our cruel March winds. Watson takes a different tack, but I will affirm what his critics believe. He is culpable, perhaps not of offering the shooter *guidance*, but certainly for setting the groundwork, creating a febrile atmosphere for a new breed of martyr. That he cannot own up to it lessens his integrity.

But I do own up to it. My efforts at becoming a shock and awe blogger were gradual. I didn't start out saying to myself "gee, I am going to crucify disability activists, homosexual culture, secular liberalism and then convert to rather ineffectual anarchy with fantastical notions of destroying public housing." It took many steps, but unlike Watson, or Candace, I can't win. Beyond a certain core sympathy block, I cannot build my way into social media methods toward earned income. Does Google suppress me? Perhaps indirectly, as the search giant won't help me repair monetization. Does Twitter? Maga persons make claims in this direction, but me, I don't know. I am spammed, sometimes besieged, by purchase follower accounts with astronomical prices, but I do not have the hacker's expertise to cull dark web paranoia to my advantage, as I suspect Watson does, in our incendiary populist times. 

New Zealand

Yes, I would face Google Blogger suspending my services to be forthright about the Australian shooter, and actually danced on eggshells

on Twitter for once, rather than on my virulent non-redeemable platform, and I am nearly sure that some 4 chan users are already saying what I would say and am not, just yet, perhaps never-- though one day I may. Though fully cognizant of Paul Joseph Watson's argument that not all Muslims are terrorists simply because a significant minority among them radicalize, and I retorted to him that I accept responsibility for my damaged conscience and that I wasn't "yellow belly," what I'll tell y'all is this. September 2017 marked the beginning of a steep and crippling curve for me, and I am just a little too on edge to handle any leftist hysteria or excoriation  I might readily encounter. I feel Sam Neill's hurt for his pastoral island. Best I can manage. What I wouldn't do is categorize this Australian as insane simply as a coping mechanism, and we'll leave it there.