Demi Moore's Clairvoyance

I resisted cell phones for a long time. During the fist Obama campaign I was on Stephanie Verderame's family plan, a woman once my sister on whom I flipped during the building renovations (circa 2007). Nasty flipped. I called her a cunt, and however much she yanked my apron strings, baby sister and cunt snaps a ribbon somewhere, but I am too tired to claim I am not impervious to shame.

Anyway, however briefly, I entered into a two year contract for the Apple iPhone 5c, and as you can see, Steve Jobs did not carve me a pancreatic cancer choice cut to deify him. I am going to attempt to activate the damn trinket now. What the fuck is wrong with you to believe the world is changed over a pocket data device? Jesus Christ, a martini evening of allergies and foul mood, I am going to try to make this union work, as I'll travel easier. Tom Cruise might have taken Katie's role in this baked over youth angst Stepford Wives fin de siecle as a non-compliance omen. Not sure I'm feeling well enough to tolerate snark tripe engaged in coitus.

Mucinex Valors

I was a putz too fourteen years ago. Got soppy, maudlin, panicky when she did not answer me. I advise anyone facing student loan default not to go this route, though I do not know how this crushing debt becoming nearly inviolate helps anyone, the debtors, or the economy. I literally let Linda exacerbate my anxiety, triggering the depression joined to it into an overwhelming-- cascade. Not sure how else to describe it. Episodes have roots, however, and this started in 95 with my brother's AIDS death. Padre told me to go to work on the day it occurred, which was a mistake. My then executive director shared his personal experiences about not being there for the death of his mother, which was kind of him, but despair gnawed hope into ground glass after Nicky died, and I resigned from Matrix not long thereafter. First damn broke with that. People in wheelchairs don't quit jobs, and I'd left three positions in a less than contained fashion. My last day under Linda's supervision, while friendly, came less than 12 hours after my assault, so I was on shaky pinions in my early thirties. By the time she threw me with her opinion that spastics have better orgasms than the rest of you, my eggshell was a thinning vellum, and my cherry was a flagellation center in which the hatred that creates assassins came to life, freshly minted.

By the time I stabilized, the building renovations started, and the inner city butch sack who wanted to ply her desire to indulge, unfortunately selected me for a target.

Second leg of long nightmare. Yes, I know; whipping this up in a post is not self-curation, but Miss Eddy's stealth and predatory deception leads to violence not due to denial and repression of auto erotic response; her deceit has its part, similar to that my mother's best friend Kmac played. This was not Chris Cooper in American Beauty, who was roused to courage by the sight of Spacey getting ripped. Eddy was a nursing aid, and it took me a long time to live down her hit, so long that black women in scrubs still make me uneasy. Not everyone has the self-confidence of a comedic character actor to make dung bitches switch it off fast enough. A young Canadian biology technician posted that gays can misinterpret signals. That might be fine for heterosexuals highly confident in their own sensuality, but aggressive lesbians shouldn't be surprised when they provoke their own injuries.

My abstract on James has nothing to do with this. I shall write it over the weekend. I do not always lighten it up, but this contest sounds fun. I'd like a writing party. Email me, bearing in mind I'm in cyclic bronchitis mode, taking extra rest, dying in my own fluid.

Omelette Influenza

Kept myself off eggs for a few weeks. On an anecdotal level I seemed to dry out, but upon cratering  to my tastes and driving out in the rain and despite phlegm expectorants, spastic doesn't feel well and paid for my hot bowl of chili this morning, little kimmy on Joey's favorite pillow looking up at me saying I know I am not your most beloved feline but I keep house and une peu Vincento in line and insist you make additional efforts to give sans audience the pet children picture showcase after you dry out that damn puss!

My genetic line must have absorbed a bit of those gladiator lions who slaughtered true believers, given the troubles I put up with. I'd like a spot of pea soup, with ham, but my schedule is on official sick day. Does Asia chortle, or should that question be nixed for my own protection? 

Cheers to Ylan Q. Mui

Thank you for your article Ylan, for it represents the predicament in which Linda C. Dezenski left me twelve years ago, and now my lung issues leave me too much further impaired to undo the damage; more than likely I am now going to decline worse than any animal mortally injured in its habitat, which leaves me empty handed but for this age old question about the human condition.

I cannot apply for a hardship exception anymore, and that is my fault for being honest with the lawyer assigned to me during my bankruptcy hearing. I told the lawyer about my mother's death leaving an uexpected windfall from insurance, and the lawyer was not happy with me, as a practical matter. She and I could have applied for hardship, and I probably would have won, but I told her about my mum. I did not want to be prosecuted by the state for fraud had I not spoken, but you know, I begin to feel as if I might have succeeded in life with a criminal record, and I am starting to giggle on the verge of insanity, to steal a direct phrase from Henry James.

My conditions are bad, but not as dire as when my mother died, and before you ask, I wound up having to use most of those funds for medical bills, and to pay Tim for not having the time to take care of me very well. I'd like to stop using him altogether, but professional cleaning services would cost more, and inflame my bronchial issues just the same. Would you like a dark anecdote? Do you have a choice?

My colon erupted, little more than a half hour behind this paragraph; it felt like a decent half gallon of paste, with all the phlegm I have been producing, and that eruption would have been an accident, but I had a chuck liner stuck to my thigh, and that caught the opening discharge, like a loose diaper, spared the worst. I got lucky, in a sense, but I will never get better, and so Chris Beasley bans my account @ the literature network because I tried to approach him on the fact that I was ill, but could he pay me for the work he accepted, and this discussion constituted an attack.

You know what I think it constitutes? Spastic_dowager absorbs a great deal of punishment, whatever else I am guilty of. Posting frequency does effect concentration, and I tried to limit my usage before I crossed swords with the big kahuna, not become too invested, but did anyway, but how far we go with banning online accounts makes me wonder. I did not threaten to sue Mr. Beasley, though I will soon file a discrimination claim against him, because some of those virtual connections mattered to me. I never harassed or attacked any poster, nor emailed them to talk, though I did make a few research requests from young and healthier instructors, and I never consciously attempted to violate their rules, nor given an *infraction*. I know about this from live meeting three members, and in short I'm tired of being punished like this.