It is difficult to know when a COPD flare up is a chronic bronchitis revolt, or just a cold, or allergies in my less than sterile environment. Eschatological alarms reign over my identity, and though the pneumonia grip has passed, this year of my life seems to be the year. However much the majority of happy go lucky social media users read Disability in Entertainment Arts and then flee, well, my spastic domestic terrorist in mortal combat with the obsessive disciple of a master I've all but disavowed in a 34 year tantrum because a childish invalid feels jilted, doesn't really have much quality time left at her disposal. I've diffidently grafted onto Yabberz, and though I may not be able to prove who came from twitter at the urging of my fanatical controlling tendencies, go, join.
I too want a verified account logo, as if I'm joining the next Cabinet on the Beltway in 2017.
Showing posts with label pulmonary distress. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pulmonary distress. Show all posts
Monday, March 21, 2016
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
From The Mouth of Ashley Judd's Assassin
"You think I pushed Cheryl too hard?", Stephanie March, SVU incarnation
Hilary Swank and Jennifer Garner have the nearly exact corresponding genotype in the eye of a casting director. They are both reasonably attractive tom boy brunettes with well defined cheekbones, with complexions comparable to a glass of milk; not great beauties, but wholesome American girls with thick African defined lips in a darker contrast to their Caucasian skin tone, at least with lavender colored lipstick, with equally equivalent range and talent, the only real difference between the two of them is Swank attained elevation against Eastwood and then went poof, both women having trouble maintaining their first billing leads on screen, with Garner more tangible to television. Wait another ten years lady. At 44 you think your body will hold the assembly line, mature but sturdy. By 55 those martial arts moves you've perfected as Supergirl in a technocratic age will require performance enhancing drugs.
It is easy to believe as brunettes, we are all Hilary and Jennifer, this is why the studio selects them. Girls just like us who marry the reasonably hip boy next store Affleck, but none of are truly like this, on closer examination, the athletic naivety which muddles its way through rural trash family exploitation and betrayals of trust, landing on our feet with a chance at second love, or the true father figure riding to the rescue on a mercy mission which concedes that our determination and strength as overwhelmed, shielded, as always, by the Hollywood marriage, an inexplicable anachronism in the modern age, much like Foucault's fascination with the royal body of the sovereign as a living embodiment of the body politic. Michel's queer intellectual rigor wasn't in error, as the still relatively undefined AIDS virus destroyed his body due to his inability to stave off unsafe anal penetration and direct his energies elsewhere, (though in fairness, in 84 , Fauci's carefully proscribed phrases about "unsafe sexual practices" weren't current in liberal lexicography). The health of the sovereign does reflect the health of a national power. The real problem, as we hurl four years ahead, where the dowager logged on to research temporary political jobs, isn't the pneumonia, but the clots, the concussions, bad temperaments tailgating fading relevance, on both ends of the political spectrum. More on this in more demanding thought processes later; this post was borne out of an annoyance, desiring some quiet evening reading. The dowager failed, volume and video the only things to penetrate a sterile evening, loneliness, fear, sore epidermis, stressed digestion.
Hilary Swank and Jennifer Garner have the nearly exact corresponding genotype in the eye of a casting director. They are both reasonably attractive tom boy brunettes with well defined cheekbones, with complexions comparable to a glass of milk; not great beauties, but wholesome American girls with thick African defined lips in a darker contrast to their Caucasian skin tone, at least with lavender colored lipstick, with equally equivalent range and talent, the only real difference between the two of them is Swank attained elevation against Eastwood and then went poof, both women having trouble maintaining their first billing leads on screen, with Garner more tangible to television. Wait another ten years lady. At 44 you think your body will hold the assembly line, mature but sturdy. By 55 those martial arts moves you've perfected as Supergirl in a technocratic age will require performance enhancing drugs.
It is easy to believe as brunettes, we are all Hilary and Jennifer, this is why the studio selects them. Girls just like us who marry the reasonably hip boy next store Affleck, but none of are truly like this, on closer examination, the athletic naivety which muddles its way through rural trash family exploitation and betrayals of trust, landing on our feet with a chance at second love, or the true father figure riding to the rescue on a mercy mission which concedes that our determination and strength as overwhelmed, shielded, as always, by the Hollywood marriage, an inexplicable anachronism in the modern age, much like Foucault's fascination with the royal body of the sovereign as a living embodiment of the body politic. Michel's queer intellectual rigor wasn't in error, as the still relatively undefined AIDS virus destroyed his body due to his inability to stave off unsafe anal penetration and direct his energies elsewhere, (though in fairness, in 84 , Fauci's carefully proscribed phrases about "unsafe sexual practices" weren't current in liberal lexicography). The health of the sovereign does reflect the health of a national power. The real problem, as we hurl four years ahead, where the dowager logged on to research temporary political jobs, isn't the pneumonia, but the clots, the concussions, bad temperaments tailgating fading relevance, on both ends of the political spectrum. More on this in more demanding thought processes later; this post was borne out of an annoyance, desiring some quiet evening reading. The dowager failed, volume and video the only things to penetrate a sterile evening, loneliness, fear, sore epidermis, stressed digestion.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Gravel
Perhaps I am actually in the early stages of dying, and the Asian student who suggested emphysema missed the mark, and I am more correctly caving in to COPD, but so what. I aspired, failed, lived a life of denigration, and you will say the expense of inhalers and steroids and hearing aids I cannot afford even with Medicare and Medicaid is a good thing, and no, I am on the verge of giving up, despite mio padre's guilt. "Don't go in a home," he says.
What the fuck is the bloody difference if I have to be maintained by minorities who feel my hostility even if it is unspoken? I am not afraid of my bath chair today, but that out of basic indifference. I have been breathing like a pneumatic drill since I caught what I hope was a cold, in early December, and the last time I saw a student, or an intern, they gave me Zyrtec. I doubt an antihistamine will do the trick.
If I once believed I was a good person, this is no longer the case, whether or not my triggers are not capable of worse. My Mucinex tablets are not fresh, but I have taken now what I believe to be my fourth. They too once cleared fairly severe bronchial inflammation, and so I wait, going to feed the children tuna, lying back down to read, having contacted the UK author who solicited me.
What the fuck is the bloody difference if I have to be maintained by minorities who feel my hostility even if it is unspoken? I am not afraid of my bath chair today, but that out of basic indifference. I have been breathing like a pneumatic drill since I caught what I hope was a cold, in early December, and the last time I saw a student, or an intern, they gave me Zyrtec. I doubt an antihistamine will do the trick.
If I once believed I was a good person, this is no longer the case, whether or not my triggers are not capable of worse. My Mucinex tablets are not fresh, but I have taken now what I believe to be my fourth. They too once cleared fairly severe bronchial inflammation, and so I wait, going to feed the children tuna, lying back down to read, having contacted the UK author who solicited me.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Barter Economy
My favorite foreign release is Tampopo, and if I torture myself into buying the DVD and then selling it back, or Amazon gets the instant viewing rights, or in longer odds, it plays on my broadcast channels, it is ripe for dissection, however much I might wish for a photogenic memory, this is not one of my gifts. Culling the vignettes I can recall is not entirely satisfactory, though it might startle some of you that a film like this gives me a rare light-hearted delight, a sense of resolution that allows me to hold out, surviving gravel lungs and all, inclusive of supporting the Japanese if they harbor any future hope of continuing to humiliate China. If the boys of WW2 had played their cards with more acumen, Mao might not have ever had the opportunity to lay the mainland to waste.
Let me roll back a prior hostility slightly: Douglas's A Solitary Man turned out to be a wicked enjoyment, a rare moment when I could set aside my antagonism toward the actor and relish his deconstructions. This film is a subtle amalgam: a more incisive war of the Roses absent the poignant finality, an inside commentary on long winding A list twilight, and a softer, if still edgy, Falling Down, which I've mentioned is Michael as the anti-hero that I liked; but Falling Down slams the brakes and winds itself up in law and order moiety. A Solitary Man refuses this safety catch, and is stronger for it, such that may lend itself to future use.
I should not be posting, but my lungs have nearly reset, and depending on how much I catch up, we'll return to The Brothers Rico shortly. Off to bed.
Let me roll back a prior hostility slightly: Douglas's A Solitary Man turned out to be a wicked enjoyment, a rare moment when I could set aside my antagonism toward the actor and relish his deconstructions. This film is a subtle amalgam: a more incisive war of the Roses absent the poignant finality, an inside commentary on long winding A list twilight, and a softer, if still edgy, Falling Down, which I've mentioned is Michael as the anti-hero that I liked; but Falling Down slams the brakes and winds itself up in law and order moiety. A Solitary Man refuses this safety catch, and is stronger for it, such that may lend itself to future use.
I should not be posting, but my lungs have nearly reset, and depending on how much I catch up, we'll return to The Brothers Rico shortly. Off to bed.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Petty Shallows
I am reluctant to use the active ingredient in Mucinex, which is Guainfensin, to treat my chronic pulmonary decline, because it was certainly not designed for emphysema, but it is the best decongestant I have ever used that is an over the counter treatment. At least it used to be, and although I am unexpectedly drying out, as I posted yesterday, I do not need a relapse, and popped another with breakfast, and this is left over capellini and sardines; no driving out in the rain, even for Fancy Feast; the children will have to make due with the Purina K&K and my two small cans until tomorrow. A shower would make me feel better in one sense, but I need the breeze; it eases the still air in the unit that makes me labor, and so I will wait a little longer to feel confident about closing the windows and getting wet.
Due to the light winter, I am very much afraid of a summer with hard driving temperatures, and perhaps need to grit my teeth and buy a fan, and expend energy on how to keep the children safe with it in the living area.
Again, you may feel that my moral blame laid at the doorstep of Linda, Liberty, and Presby is representative of impaired judgment, but, by the time I glued myself back together from what Linda had done, I lost unrestricted use of Paratransit, and Presby was harassing me, constantly. My tense relationship with this company did not begin with their hire of Trudy Richardson, and if I am forced to continue my decline here, it will not end with her departure. Building managers are like candied almonds to this corrupt religious entity.
I have detailed numerous other instances for you in these years, and now things may be stable, but my health is failing, and sustained victimatization has as much to do with that as my struggle with ending tobacco use. Internalizing my abuse has not been good for me, and as a factual matter, the law may not have any exceptions to offer me to pursue any kind of justice.
Still, I took the time last evening to print my templates, and the kids, because I have been cautious, haven't noticed anything.
I do not fear my state representative, or complaining to her. I fear the fallout at the end of the day if I persist in keeping these things front and center as violations of the Americans With Disabilities Act, and my civil rights. Maybe I am mistaken if I think the ACLU is an effective shield here, but I am packing up my first copy to them, with additional letterhead. I do not know about Governor Corbett, but I am hoping to use his lack of enthusiasm of ADAPT and Cassie James, to my advantage.
Due to the light winter, I am very much afraid of a summer with hard driving temperatures, and perhaps need to grit my teeth and buy a fan, and expend energy on how to keep the children safe with it in the living area.
Again, you may feel that my moral blame laid at the doorstep of Linda, Liberty, and Presby is representative of impaired judgment, but, by the time I glued myself back together from what Linda had done, I lost unrestricted use of Paratransit, and Presby was harassing me, constantly. My tense relationship with this company did not begin with their hire of Trudy Richardson, and if I am forced to continue my decline here, it will not end with her departure. Building managers are like candied almonds to this corrupt religious entity.
I have detailed numerous other instances for you in these years, and now things may be stable, but my health is failing, and sustained victimatization has as much to do with that as my struggle with ending tobacco use. Internalizing my abuse has not been good for me, and as a factual matter, the law may not have any exceptions to offer me to pursue any kind of justice.
Still, I took the time last evening to print my templates, and the kids, because I have been cautious, haven't noticed anything.
I do not fear my state representative, or complaining to her. I fear the fallout at the end of the day if I persist in keeping these things front and center as violations of the Americans With Disabilities Act, and my civil rights. Maybe I am mistaken if I think the ACLU is an effective shield here, but I am packing up my first copy to them, with additional letterhead. I do not know about Governor Corbett, but I am hoping to use his lack of enthusiasm of ADAPT and Cassie James, to my advantage.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Requiem, Third Movement
Emphysema at least offers the distraction of providing interesting observations while it kills you, like a long and slow poisoning by carbon monoxide. The attack I had yesterday, successfully contained, was particularly bad, and I am gradually being drowned in my own pus. I find this starkly amusing, and no counselor would lift me out of this otherwise, the attacks being fierce after Tim cleans; perhaps it is bleach fumes. I temporarily removed the air freshener, and believe I will get through the weekend without needing script for steroids or oxygen therapy. I should have stopped smoking at 19 when I puked in padre's bathroom from tonsillitis. Padre did not modify the bathroom very well.
Are there any decent families left in this country? A brief member of my Jerry-clique, a nursing student named Nancy Hoffel, was right. She argued with me about tobacco, and while I don't much care about life shortening effects in and of themselves, emphysema (or COPD, more likely, since I have always had episodes of bronchitis) has coruscating aspects, in unexpected ways. My mother's butch buddy has similar issues with COPD, and both Tim the assistant and custodial Mike have stage 1. I may be at stage 3 out of 5, if we play the medical lottery, but know my time is short, and my family just doesn't care in the sense of helping me make a move toward more tranquil resettlement.
I am looking for my damaged hard copy of Moby Dick. I want the foot notes of this great literary rip off. I have a digital copy, signifying how much I love this American epic, but want to plug my notes in the kindle, and will search again when the flush of my fever subsides. The novel needs to be read, and students need to take the effort, including the passages Melville lifts straight from the Essex tragedy, because Melville transforms this into the tragedy of the American destiny. It is our epic, and I brook no dissent from anyone on the matter. It speaks to us even in our contemporary matrix.
Huston's film with Peck, in my estimation, is the most faithful adaptation to Melville's intent, but there is no film that matches the breadth of Melville's narrative. I cannot work anymore right now; hopefully this will pass, but the episodes are progressive, and worsening, despite my willpower and fish oil and my luck with diet in lessening the worst impact of control issues.
Are there any decent families left in this country? A brief member of my Jerry-clique, a nursing student named Nancy Hoffel, was right. She argued with me about tobacco, and while I don't much care about life shortening effects in and of themselves, emphysema (or COPD, more likely, since I have always had episodes of bronchitis) has coruscating aspects, in unexpected ways. My mother's butch buddy has similar issues with COPD, and both Tim the assistant and custodial Mike have stage 1. I may be at stage 3 out of 5, if we play the medical lottery, but know my time is short, and my family just doesn't care in the sense of helping me make a move toward more tranquil resettlement.
I am looking for my damaged hard copy of Moby Dick. I want the foot notes of this great literary rip off. I have a digital copy, signifying how much I love this American epic, but want to plug my notes in the kindle, and will search again when the flush of my fever subsides. The novel needs to be read, and students need to take the effort, including the passages Melville lifts straight from the Essex tragedy, because Melville transforms this into the tragedy of the American destiny. It is our epic, and I brook no dissent from anyone on the matter. It speaks to us even in our contemporary matrix.
Huston's film with Peck, in my estimation, is the most faithful adaptation to Melville's intent, but there is no film that matches the breadth of Melville's narrative. I cannot work anymore right now; hopefully this will pass, but the episodes are progressive, and worsening, despite my willpower and fish oil and my luck with diet in lessening the worst impact of control issues.
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