In Violation

What do you hear?
Nothing but the rain.-- Edward James Olmos and Katee Sackhoff in stucco dialogue, Battlestar Galactica
Adding insult to injury, and significantly decreased ability to produce content, now without any commission activity,at least until I have the strength to engage a new platform, the left back quarter of my jaw has been stricken by an abscess. I have been fielding this for three weeks, stricken by allergic reactions to the antibiotics, amoxicillin, and the clindamycin I can only just handle, not being entirely certain I will survive the extractions at this point when the major clinics in Philadelphia actually reopen. I have never been able to transfer to the dental chair, and now my respiratory function is labored, my colon inflamed, my fecal incontinence all the more painful, no inglorious suicide by Lieutenant Dualia here as the series winds down into what is nearly a blockbuster climax. My theory about the entitled bullet in her brain, after nuclear Earth is rejected by the weary human insurgency, is that she cannot cope with having lost Billy, who is replaced by Tory in an episode I still have to back view. The Galactica reboot of 15 years ago is in many ways preposterous, takes survival genocide to a whole new level wherein I have never been able to take you with me, and I cannot get enough of it. Olmos has so sold me on Commander Admiral Adama that I simply dispense with his furiously repressed and vengeance stricken Latino identity, but he makes it work here as an embattled man of duty without saying a word, as does the entire ensemble, since we're all united here against an amalgam of Islamic terrorism transmuted into cybernetic wrath. How clever, and yet, throughout, the Cylons are basically children. Trumpian politics may have caught up to me at one point, but I have long since been superseded, erased, exterminated, and I regret the Ev Williams pay to play system on Medium more than I can tell you. We cannot actually use writing to say anything anymore, since Google has superseded Orwell, at least not collectively, and regardless of how diverse Medium members are, they fucking say nothing, collectively, over and over again, like much of Google's sweet candy streaming, keep it light, moving, and everything is forgettable technocratic automated bookmarks.
I deliberately said something into this ambulatory pitter patter, and the now mortally stricken battle axe of a spastic warrior has broken the rules, for daring to contend that a nigger predator is a thing under a column which so radically asserted that it's okay to be pessimistic because, in Jessica's cosmetic words, "people aren't going to make it". Jessica knows nothing, absolutely nothing, about medical barbarism which sits like a sewer tank on what used to be American material opulence, and whatever you've been through with the quarantine, you'll bury the subhuman lives of quadriplegics on the back stove of human affairs soon enough, as you always have; if you want me, come get me. You've tried before, and the Google rules are only the greatest sanction to exterminate the marginalized who are better off dead in the first place, not that Medium's staff will agree with that, but they are sure as hell on radio silence. I will not delete my raw outcry on the platform, because the sheer force of what I need to do to draw attention to corrupted subsistence illustrates it must be a necessary function of my right to live.

Round Pegs in the Square

This Hewlett Packard is very old. I am having enough difficulties with it and Windows Ten cannot be installed. As of today, Microsoft stops supporting Windows 7, and it will be a little longer until I can afford a new device. I already know how ludicrous it is to believe engaging in homicidal impulses toward a section 202 building manager with a rote series of trained gestures is. Philadelphia has hundreds of these matriarchal browbeaters, and if I engage in any form of illegal aggression toward her, I only prove her point. The best weapon in her arsenal was my family's provincialism, and I have pretty well suffered enough, but even the police, who don't like 202 tenants, said Trudy Richardson's harassment toward me bordered concentration camp excursiveness. The company could have simply evicted me, and the black paraplegic above me, David, has far stronger foul odors on the 6th floor. I doubt he was assaulted by Protective Services and more, as was I.
So I fight, and maybe I get rid of a house nigger with owlish glasses from New Jersey with her alleged lupus. Maybe Corey Booker gets involved and says I cannot behave like a monster because Presbyterian Homes really hates the disabled. The beat goes on. The boss Trudy is afraid of, as in The Grifters Angela Houston terror, is a Director named Dulles. Bald, fat, black, corrupt as a horse's ass, I politely told him he was full of shit, and it was indicated to me that this cowed Trudy to the same degree that her tactics have me fighting for my life. If I do engage in illegal behavior toward this woman, and go to court, I doubt the judge will allow me to move for jury nullification

Conquest of Galactic San Francisco

Vervoort, 40, suffered from incurable, degenerative spinal pain. She said in an interview in Rio de Janeiro three years ago that she only got about 10 minutes of sleep some nights and described the pain that caused others to pass out from just watching her. She said sports kept her alive.-- as disseminated from the Belgian press in its clinical mercies

I have always been a Johnny come lately to viral fads. I was diffident about blogging when it became a form of media counter culture, had the misfortune to select LiveJournal as a starting point in 2009, and my scar tissue was too raw and unpolished despite my publishing experience. I was diffident about Twitter, and only ran afoul of it as a platform after I adapted to it and its staff in turn adopted Facebook censorship tools, and I think we're all cognizant of the fact that less screen time is beneficial, but this wisdom is difficult to apply when we become prisoners to socialist models of impoverished tenancy housing, and my recent lacuna towards posting anything at all is due to pain and apathy of defeat in an essentially nigger city whose values will eventually destroy the success of European colonial expansion. A mild mannered technocrat like Ev Williams, and indeed, few others, even libertarians, can understand how such hatred within me evolved, as we are taught to condemn what people do, not who they are, and costly solutions like extermination aren't feasible, except as it pertains to the reality that humans kill each other, most often because familiarity breeds contempt, or men have a visceral fear of femininity, less often out of ethnic hatred bred by politics, and I've been desensitized enough to be aware of my own impulse triggers, however ineffectual, but this isn't why I have an intuitive dislike for Medium.
For a significant time, I did not even assemble the platform as the original collective platform on which other models like Niume or Virily were based. Nevertheless, I've paid into Medium membership and the partnership program, primarily because I could die from sitting on my buttock in a disastrously assembled Quantum powerchair. Pennsylvania's Medicaid and federal Medicare is killing me faster than my age, allowing me to understand Vervoort's excruciating embrace of euthanasia better than most of you, and the right to suicide will eventually overcome ecumenical and secular opposition, yet I balk, despite the apathy and the peril and the poverty I am fighting. I balk over every justified suicide tourist, and like the rest of you, even grow angry when it can be viewed as an extravagant contagion, the suicides of despair which cannot even visualize urban honey traps like mine, me with no one, no more positive bonds with former supervisors, no more dead lovers, cheating husbands, just tissue paper underwear and a mentally hobbled black man tending to me whom I would do anything to cut loose. I pity him more than not, as I have excuses which he doesn't, and I am, after all, this close to sixty years of age, and may not make it. This Blogger account will remain open as long as I am able to type it, but I have to slow down with it as I need money desperately if I can hope to circumvent the destruction of civilization through social welfare. Some content I've done here will go to my Medium account, some won't, and I am always, in some form, working toward a scholarly end. And if I can hold out maybe I can repair my horrendously bad environment.

Bonfire of Spectacles

With love, Jenna: it’s not the “language ‘we’ use”. It’s the President of the United States being blatantly racist and cruel. I know this is a big ask but: don’t frame it as ‘we’ doing anything. ‘He’ is doing it—and you and your dad should stand up, vocally. https://t.co/g9xOOxMYLp

— Soledad O'Brien (@soledadobrien) July 27, 2019

The fact that I know of Soledad O’Brien’s name means I must have picked it up from somewhere, which holds PBS or NPR suspect, but I have no context for her recognition and so remain unfazed that she and I follow each other, and in fact, although intonation can be hard to discern in relation to social media, her constancy in berating Trump supporters over their racism has nearly as much a satirical quality to it as the president’s shrewish grimace in North Carolina while his crowds obediently engaged in papier mache pep rally incantations, this too being a woefully inadequate strategic move against the encroachment posed by Llhan Omar. No less than a crusty old veteran like Bill Moyers backs up the argument pushed forth, at times with the reactionary force of a battering ram, against Omar’s representation, as with striking independence, he asked one of his interviewees (within the last eon) “Why is Africa so badly governed?” The question remains in full force today as it has since de-colonialization and the unraveling of imperialism, all but expired by the time of the Kennedy administration, with allowances for the Soviet frolic in Angola. Search cannot always provide the context to a frame, since we media dependents are discussing narrative frames in relation to populist challenges, but even frames are nothing new, as admirers of Joseph Conrad would comprehend. When Miles O’Brien replied to me on air while anchoring his then most recent Newshour story about not wearing his prosthetic arm, that was cause for a mild dose of slack jaw astonishment, partly because you learn not to expect such interstices despite digital folding lengths, but also partly due to anchorage, the familiarity of being a known quantity. Mr O'Brien had this for me without my ability to recall before and after bookends. Soledad doesn't have that and neither does her vehicle, Matter of Fact, but neither shall she have it. Sometimes, the best strategy is not revealing the hand you hold. Cato Institute contributors manage this particularly well. Johan Norberg orated on video that Africa would demand that its energy needs be met, on par with the developed world. This shouldn't necessarily mean that indigence in more privileged countries continues to downgrade, as under Llhan and her sympathizers it surely shall. By this reasoning, I'd admire Trump more if his administration brought federal charges against the congresswoman, popped her off to the ANC, wherein she'd have like minded company.

Wrestling Federations

I do not watch Fox News regularly, sampled Tucker Carlson on Twitter briefly after his exchange with Durden caused her financial security to enter into a tailspin, and still interpret that interview as Carlson baiting the horse. Philadelphia is basically a black city, and I got the gist of Durden's defensiveness about whites, didn't mind it, and truly believe Carlson is too linear, lacking the requisite Jewish urbanity pounded into us on a daily basis, but he did not cause Durden's employers to terminate her contract. Is he a racist, or a hypocrite? I label myself a racist so as not to be hypocritical, but make an effort to be fundamentally fair, unlike the leftists who terrorized Carlson's wife. Galahad wouldn't have lasted as long as he has, otherwise, and our morning ritual of personal hygiene issues is the dream job of no one. Terrorizing him [Carlson] because his rhetoric is reactive to Otherness gets us absolutely nowhere, except to someplace worse, an environment of little leniency. I unsubscribed from the Thrillest because I purchased The First Purge 2018, and Christ people, no right wing government needs such an elaborate scheme to legitimize micro-genocide as a policy solution on a once a year basis. Welfare states do it by turning health care into factory farming. Public housing does it through punitive stricture. If you're as poor as tenants who need 811 or 202, then paternalism is the rod on the back of the aberrant behavior which led to the impoverishment, just as Apple may lose its profit margin because it no longer has a stabilized monopoly on which to base long term development. AT&T had it for about a century. I've written in the past that sometimes, violence is necessary, as it was when T. H. Lawrence became a chameleon in Arabia, or when the ANC traded places with the National Party, and Cape Town is marginally better off than Kampala, but swarming television anchors and politicians of any political stripe with mob intimidation, this simply amounts to civil unrest in a republic becoming too leveraged to either over saturated professions or very high levels of expertise. 

Kimmy's Mouse Under The Oven

Even if I wanted to go roll onto my mattress, I would not get much sleep. Discounting my bedridden helplessness throughout October and much of November, this is my fourth or fifth major accident to date in my ever encroaching bands of constriction, a brief speculation about being afflicted with Typhus flickers in my mind, one of the first really clever articles I ever read in The New Republic, or perhaps meningitis. He handles it as well as anyone can, my larger than life attendant who rolls in in the morning hyped on sugar and spouting astrology and numerology and I nod my head what the fuck do I care why do I want to sleep with this asshole? It is an interesting form of African American liberation heresy, reading the signs as a method to comprehend the happenstance of material events, though it is equally true I believe in my traits being born as an Aquarius, the water-bearer, and he seems to have a natural aptitude for this pseudo-science, the gargantuan I now characterize as Galahad. I have only treated him as well as I have, to date, for the temptation of his physique, and while my need has not quite been vanquished, I am too sore these days, we’ve grown too familiar to freshen it, argue like a couple on the wane. The evening I could have fully kissed him is bygone, so why am I milking it to the mundane even as Charles Krauthammer celebrates life to his last hours? “No no no,” I exclaimed at the super-phone Friday shortly before the traditional supper hour, rocking back and fourth in my equally supped up chair, and the boy man hugged me as he saw my face crater, but I am growing weary of nigger gallantry, no offense to the African who recently came to my feed. I am merely taking comfort in doing what I do, trolling to make people genuflect away from me. This is my coping mechanism, allowing red meat to diminish the fineness of my acumen, actually not so fine anymore, since words like colossal no longer readily spring to mind. And Charles is a colossus, larger than life, whether in effigy or as adversary or in alliance, the psychiatrist who jumped ship, abandoned faith in medical model classification to become the guardian of the right thing to do, the right policy to pursue. In print, he was too hard, and I was slow toward any empathetic agreement, not being a true conservative, and Galahad is heartened by my determination to restore my merit, to find a way to fill the shoes Krauthammer leaves behind, me, the little whiff of angry vulgarity. I told Galahad I had a suicide plan. “Go ahead, turn me in,” I said. “Make it worse.” Don’t tell me what it is.

Anthony Bourdain only has the silence of what forensic science chooses to reveal. He was a delight to listen to in his television appearances. Sorrow is the right keynote to feel, and in my verve to the alternate path, I need your prayers to use my mind to regain my own control. I weep, and offer them to you in turn, as I plot to get this diaper off, soiled in despair. Pray for me. At the very least, Trump could fly my anus over North Korea, nourishing alternative food sources, or giving Kim dysentery. Not specious enough? I’m not strong enough this morning.

Ischemic Stroke Pulses in Joy Reid’s Fan Club

"She apologized because she got caught." --James Woods

Basically, I have three choices. Call the case manager, a woman thirty odd years our junior, request he be exchanged for absolutely no good reason, as I came at this woman hard, and as a result, my caretaker and I were awarded special recognition. Regardless of what I’d say to his superiors, questions would be raised that would have consequences after singing his praises. I’d in essence relieve significant sexual tension between us to return to potluck picks even though his tactics worked. My breasts have flushed out, I feel like I’m ovulating again, his hands break out in a sweat at the touch of my skin, and although it was not the very brief French kiss I planted on him not many posts ago, he did kiss me on the lips Saturday. For someone fighting me so hard verbally still on one end, he is still compliant on the other, and I have to come to terms with the fact I’m in love with him: maybe it is entangled in the desperation of entrapment, gratitude. I’ve run the gamut and realize the disparity between us just as he does, nearly begging him to leave me even after saying to him please don’t leave my life. “I’m not going anywhere!” he exclaims. And yet, after being rolled and changed and clothed in dilatory routine I’ve been subjected to since October, I sat by the larger window on my left, vaping, and the dowager, in defiant resurrection, said wearily, this fine spring day, you have no idea how happy I’d be to get off this bed myself, how this insulation enveloping me is making me lose my fucking mind. That too, was my rebellious truth. Shall we pick a card? But we were on choices, were we not?

Second choice, as previously mentioned, force his hand. Make him sleep with me or forcibly reject me. Life is short, I’m 56, and to whatever degree I’m culpable, see whether we work as lovers or don’t, and accept how either pathway changes our respective roles. I’m not absolutely certain here, but he’d take me out of hunger if nothing else if I really seduced him into it, or else he would not have allowed my aggressive foreplay.

Third, leave it as it is, let him go, which I thought, on Friday, that I had, only to find myself in tears, once again, four or five hours past. These tears are rather familiar, in the need for adhesion to an able male protector who will give me sympathy, or commiseration, but never that which they do not feel, Jerry or John from my febrile youthful longing, a handful of others. This guy was, is, simply too generous, his heart nearly literally on its sleeve, I can see the very dark irony over killing myself on the sword of nigger pity, with perhaps a little desire mixed in. I have to allow myself some credit in his fear of his own lust. I see what it’s doing to him. Part of me cares not to have him suffer, even as my cousin, new found consigliere, tells me I cannot help what I feel, defender of Joy Reid’s revulsion, my very own. Do I have the right to force him into something not best for either our mutual long term interests? Georgy Girl took a satirical bite out of those hormones saddling James Mason to an otherwise oblivious Lynne Redgrave in the flush of conquest. We’re no longer in that era where women shifted the balance of power, this one saturated in urine twice over.

This, under his zealous guardianship, the shrinking cadaver in her final blows under optimal regulatory compliance.

The arc of Vegetable States

"I couldn't help but feel sorry for him."-- Teddy Bear, Zone Blanche

Though I have not been overly persistent on the matter, once a year I text message Thomas Paine of True Pundit about working for him, and have a sustained interest in learning his true identity. Speculation that he is a former federal agent or DOJ official may spring from how he tweets to Eric Holder and the FBI, and makes sense except for the tagline on his account, which contravenes the notion of authority figure, despite the fact award winning journalists necessarily have good investigative skills. Given the unraveling of the Bureau under Trump, and Mueller's rather serious blow in revenge, raiding Cohen's offices, my interest has intensified, and my approach may be blockheaded, given that he is a Patreon content creator. I may simply not understand how to join True Pundit, or other aggregators of their type. Beneath the surface of everything I have been writing about, being steamrolled and hamstrung by welfare, the freeze of my most important content in Office 7 wps files, and eclipsing my independence by submitting myself to a nursing aide from whom I am deriving sexual comfort--trust me when I say this is never where I wanted to be, and I had something of a serious argument with the man this afternoon, which resolved little, other than the knowledge that I'm falling in love with an intellectual inferior for the reason these things always occur within the subculture of broken bodies. It has ensnared me too finally, this regression to a caregiver, though to some degree, it always has, as I am panicked about the restoration of some professional function. The sheer intensity of how aroused I've been within this last week hasn't helped in my progression towards troubleshooting my issues.

This is what has been drawing me back to persistent vegetative states. The Criminal Intent episode Conscience is comparable to the Zone Blanche pilot, in which viewers are tricked into corresponding shots of the forest and the evidence on the boy's body as being supernaturally linked. Then the reality is exposed. A mother cannot accept that her son's condition came about as the result of being falsely accused of rape, and drags him through the soil on a nightly basis in an attempt to reverse his all but successful suicide. Shawn doesn't want me to wind up the same way, and though my family might not share this perspective, his strategism to help me see I'm still a living woman both worked and backfired, and now we're in a gray zone of almost lovers, though I've said some terrible things about my attitude on interracial fondling of this sort. I wanted him to see what I'd made myself. He asked if I truly reduced him to these racial terms, and when I'm in his arms I don't, but those arms are not the real world with its social stratification. Paine believes the raid on Cohen is deep state at its worst, an attempt by the meritocracy to disassemble Trumpian populism, and the skeptic within me has concurred in silence. Shattering lawyer client privilege due to speculative hush money is a big deal, as we of a certain generation wade toward minimal awareness. I published one scoop in my lifetime, and now I have to consider it a privilege that I'm limited to merely writing a post a night, as opposed to pitching. If I truly want a psychic separation between me and my nurse, I can do it without firing him, merely by treating him like a servant, and dimming the dial on the scent of his testosterone, politely asking him to respect my space, fading into a routine which in and of itself has the beat of a respirator in an atmosphere deliberately created to stoke our paranoid fantasies.

Bowel Charts With Debbie Reynolds

"Tammy, Tammy, Tammy's in love."-- Debbie Reynolds, before the Fisher shiv

The answer to my sexually stressed question of Tuesday morning is a probable no. We reigned it in, and as we are a bond, after a fashion, I am leaving him his space to the degree I can beyond his responsibilities, although he still uses the terminology of personal relationships. I doubt it is to mislead, just his way of being a happy minstrel doing his black machismo parody, and I am feeling let down because I’m chasing skank which doesn’t want to be fetched, or so I believe, I, who believes where abstinence is necessary then it’s possible, my own chuckle as scathing as a blade. That has certainly been put to the test, and Christ knows what effect my discovery of electricity is having on him, remembering whatever crest I feel now, I want to recover, he wants to get me there, at least one thing in common within our appropriation tolerance, our hearts absorbing too much without enough armor. I’m not angry with the game, for I lowered my guard, as always, and any man would feel sorry over admissions which lead to cactus fields. I’m simply too old to feel horny all the time over a decent welfare health care provider, and this is another monkey wrench. I keep moving too slowly to return to a prior point of self-reliance, and that to rectify it I may have to stay up in the chair to do business in the morning before he clocks in, which might slow his time, make him watch television further away. There is nothing wrong with “a little fun,” in the lingo of his sisters, but what goes for sustained erections in men is comparable to what happens when women arouse vaginally, not so easy to stand down in an endless pair of Depends, and the music serving as my balm is that of Reynolds. Andrew Sullivan has his definition of true conservativism, one which I vaguely remember. Mine might include the moral decision to put a stop to this by replacing him, but then I lose the better part of the bargain, given all these hard and incessant details about lesbian predation, thieves, and other niceties peppering my posts, and as you can see, as my cousin counsels me like chick talk would, better friend to me than my actual sister, yes, he’s softened me, the reducible nigger enlarged upon. If I actually attempt to tongue, and he responds, that is a change, a risk. I’m not ready for a full throttle, and know that would be a change too much, and it succumbs, of course, to what I’d swore to myself would never be, assuming he wouldn’t forcibly grip my wrists, preventing me. There is that. I don’t have Governor Greitens' physical strength to actually coercive a man twice my size to enter and satisfy me, with the building twittering that the dowager’s flushed face means some weight has been lifted. Although Greitens' problems aren't helping Republicans, whose loss of Ryan is an admission of tactical failure, I think we need to start viewing these scandals through a different lens, regardless of whether or not coercion is proven. (Why wasn't it rape?)  I have to think, on my own terms, about what true conservativism means, and Woods' public tweets may help me without the need of contact, wishing I knew what it was like to be the one pursued. It's too late for that.

Galley Tear Sheets

"Marriage does not complete you."-- my former glaucoma blind neighbor

 I had the poor bastard on his knees trying to console my inconsolable stream of tears for a domestic life I’ll never have.  (Though this more nuanced Molina love portrait will remain only a synopsis via second hand.) I did not intend to do that and did not turn and play aggressor in the process of his knee on my behalf, with a shrug, as I by mere happenstance remember this post, without enough context in it to recall the necessity of citing Alberto Moravia. Poor Shawn is out of his depth, and out of curiosity I said he could read my posts. And as you can read, he commented with a vernacular appreciation, and I do not care what he says, Joanne you’re not dead! Nor do I care what the crones of Visiting Nurses say about bringing me back. Frank was a living embodiment of what former neighbor Tom advised me in my mid-twenties. Frank was a lack of completion, more than that, an alienation. Shawn is not a completion either but for reasons unknown to me, our simulated intimacy whispers in my ear: this is what it means to be held, this is comfort in another’s strength, and he has to give me time to have my little whirlwind. I have had larger whirlwinds, even derived satisfaction from utilizing pity to manipulate men of more piercing temperament than he, but now I only feel chagrin at my power to bring a softer Hulk to marriage proposal position within the blink of an eye, a boy man who thinks my acquired culinary tastes are akin to sinking in quicksand, and makes me laugh, exclaiming, “I cannot eat this,” despite the fact that I thought seaweed snacks were a popular vogue. My past and present make rather strange bookends: Brandon was one Negro stereotype out of The Birth of A Nation, the aggressor whose lewd violence threatened white purity, and my life itself, and now I am distressing my caretaker of sweeter cocoa hue because I never made a good marriage. Without actually being able to petulantly stomp my foot and fracture solid concrete, my grief nevertheless stands in as a recipe substitution doing exactly that. Don’t I think other people suffer? Sure I do. Stephen Hawking bore his 24 hour maintenance with gentility, and Megan Crowley deserves President Trump’s attention, though I believe her father’s zealous determination to be misguided, which immediately places our relation to each other, corresponding points of impairments, in opposition with my arguments, but I’ll never have Gretchen’s pleasure, probable joy, in the sanctity of her union with Karl. I never wanted children, but the way Gretchen brings her little girl to life has its charm, and I will enjoy one day meeting her daughter, though my budget is momentarily too strained to return to the Virginias—but my point is, I begin to see why wives of such caliber celebrate family, and fear the lash upon lash which has fed a fury such as mine, defying online rules of engagement. I see what it is. When you lose the ability to utilize your toilet on demand because of a predatory mechanic you desperately begged for help, then get back to me, in my past sterile godsend that was September 2017.

Decline and Fall

"Christianity is a sickness."-- my paraprofessional

That I am actually reading Gibbon in tandem with Niall Ferguson's now familiar analogy and rhythm is a coincidence, and that he does touch on healthcare as a staggering edifice of a troubled welfare system is certainly not attributable to me. I worry more, in fact, that pitching to Vanity Fair is a nearly insurmountable task for a non-staffer, as opposed to the bon professor's ready access. I'd have to send a resume to Comnsate Publications, last time I researched the issue. I have to work my way back in on a smaller scale. My bowel is hurting, the adult diapers, as I knew they would years ago, are destroying my buttock epidermis, and I'm having tremors. I was warned about all of this, only now collapsing at 56 plus a testament to thick Italian skulls, well back into the past, and I cannot delude myself that I'm redeemable as a woman with cerebral palsy who refused to apply to Harvard on the fear of social stigma. I'm dying, and I'm dying of nothing but the poverty of technical medical disaster, and I die unrepentant, unable to tweet a compliment to Pat Toomey without getting inexplicably attacked by this account. I did not have to respond to Memes, and it was undoubtedly worth my while not to do so, but I am in pain, and Memes, like a social media jackass, tells me I am privileged because I contacted Pat Toomey about illegal collusion at Philadelphia's farcical disability center. I have no idea what Memes wants from me, and consider his, or her, conduct, no more than harassment. I am not special to Toomey, or his staff, I just agree with him after facing a lifetime of antipodal destruction under Philadelphia Housing authority auspices, and stand by my tweet, which I shall not embed, that Toomey is righteous. Others are free to make their own decisions. I only repent the precipitous decline in my health because single payer option rationing is its proximate cause, and I do not blame the GOP. I worried, briefly, that I'd really destroy my mental welfare by developing a bond with the male paraprofessional on whom I now depend, but then I realize he says uneducated and outlandish conspiratorial sentiments, and it will not happen, hopefully. I have heard such stories of racial remorse conscientiousness before, and I cannot. Because I still harbor that unpleasant internal condensation. He and I "friended" each other, so this evening, I will not push the envelope any further, nonetheless, we're both single, lonely, and if he is going to nurse me for an indefinite period, men are men, women are women, and I need be cautious, or find him better economic security, and return to antagonistic tensions with predominately minority women. This has no correlation to my defense of Niall Ferguson against Pankaj Mishra's charges of neo-imperialism, not at first glance, but throughout history, state welfare systems erode the vibrancy of civilization. I crushed myself with high expectations. Gibbon, as you may or may not know, worked in episodic poverty, and suffered from scoliosis, but he was an important transitional historian, a bridge between hagiography of the Enlightenment, and evidence based means testing and aggregate data of the modern discipline which Niall engages with astute methodology, and his critics miss his main points about authority, central state systems, and the evolution of modern economy and financial innovation. I would not deign to call Niall righteous. It is not the right descriptive for an accessible scholar and analyst, but he's a realist who recognizes boundary markers, concedes progressive victories against differences oppressed by social caste, and his critics are simply off base. He taught me about the evolution of money in a manner I was never challenged to consider, and if that isn't a scholar doing his job, pray tell, what is?

Blooper Pitch

"I am licensed to carry," my former weekend attendant of biracial extraction

Succumbing to able bodied rationalism, if we can call it that, I allowed the harried healthcare professionals to order a home hoya, so the home boy doesn't break his back, my hope of full recovery ever narrowing. How long he actually stays on with me is an open question, as he tells me stories about his family killing each other in Germantown, and I showed him my account but told him not to read it given my gleeful use of slurs when I am in the mood. On the downside, I am taking a chance, as he upped my FB friends by one-- so we can add a two minority count-- former co-worker Cheryl and Shawn the zodiac believer. Unfortunately, in my recent post respectfully pushing back against Nick, I was correct. "What's liberalism?" Shawn the hip cat asked, illustrating the upside. If he disregards my prohibition and reads my links, he'll never comprehend the full imprecation of my hostility. Then again, I could not sync for 24 months because I did not comprehend iPhone had to pop up on the wireless network. Does this even things out? Do I solicit your pity? Will I engage death by cop and earn a student march thereby?

As anticipated, reading the English subtitles for Zone Blanche on my wider laptop is far more comprehensible, and I reviewed the pilot (again), ecstatic that French writers don't play me for a fool. Brahaim's Major Weiss solves her murder, kidnapping, murder (brother, widow, best friend) around the elongated subplots in the more inexplicable back stories, with just the mere suggestion of more sinister and foreboding aspects yet left to be unraveled. Methinks the writers are asking is the evil which emanates from baser human motives a magnifier of evolutionary brutality, or do natural events not particularly favorable to survival make it easier for the shrinkage of compassion? If so, the episodes have far better balance than any American counterpart. I like Brahaim, frail but tenacious, the maimed warrior in pursuit of her objective; I like the allergic prosecutor and the finesse of his comic relief, yet capable of breaking a suspect. We have some worthwhile motifs to examine as I savor S1, keeping my fingers crossed that the entrails don't spill out with an obvious stench, plotting the points in my head to distance myself from Mr. Mocha when I need to work. I have been a long time picking up the pieces while he watches The Young and the Restless. I do not do soap half as well as domestic terrorism, much like Emmanuel himself. So handsome, so Kennedy, in the romance of Paris I'll never taste.

In the Retrograde

Since I am, in whatever enfeebled manner, discussing politics, hanging on the implied assurances of Nick Gillespie's data, I do not take issue with Reason’s editor at large laying blame on Hillary’s 2017 campaign as being poorly managed, but having the former first lady from Arkansas take a mea culpa for having won the coasts and lost the center doesn’t solve our national ailments. Nick conveniently glosses over Hillary’s implicit appeal to national ethos in West Virginia in 2007. Both she and President Clinton were widely criticized for how they handled their opposition to Obama’s candidacy, but Nick seems to imply that if she was the wrong candidate against her former boss, she should have been the right one against Donald Trump. He never mentions Bernie Sanders, Anthony Weiner’s frolic with girls in middle school, the email server. These were self-inflicted wounds which could have easily been avoided had the Democratic Party a viable alternate to the Clinton brand. I can’t speak for those in Maga, for those who believe Trump will deliver to his base, but I didn’t want either candidate. I’ve written more than once why I made the choice I did, and part company with more rational conservatives like James Woods, who has made his own brand count on policy, when it comes to the border wall. I remain opposed, despite my recent experience with bona fide immigrants tending to my care. I don’t think these barriers work. All you have to do is examine Israel’s border with Syria, then ask yourself if this is what Zionists envisioned as the war years drew to a close. I also don’t like protectionism and the tariffs against China, and my life in the Commonwealth is the hell it’s always been, not to mention that prior to my drastic mechanical failures, I fought like a dog applying for jobs on Linked In, only to have recruiters vanish into   thin air after they approached me with letters of interest. It’s cruel and not fair that I can’t even get people like Jody Condi to so much as talk to me after all the hardships I’ve been through since fall, given my age and what I’m up against, and I am not even in the top tiers of the administration where generals and executives crash to the ground in rampant deforestation. My caretaker has been torturing himself all week about leaving Jewish Employment Vocational Services (JEVS), which has had its hand in the attendant care till for years, for a custodial job in the school system where he has been strung along since the Superbowl. I thought he was leaving, and now I wonder if my regret at his impending departure was an undue influence on his decision to stay. He said he was sick of submitting his prints to the FBI. Sign of the times—but it’s not Trump destroying democracy. His primary supporters did that by making him the frontrunner. That result is the GOP’s fault, which traditionally has an heir apparent, something the left could have done without in the waning dusk of Obama’s second term. I’ve made some progress with this black man who cares too much not to abandon me, like an overgrown little boy, the eight days I took to pass a large bowel movement not a particularly benevolent sign. Even if March For Our Lives wins some concessions on gun regulation, I still think Nick is barking up the wrong tree. It’s past the point for the Clintons to heal divisions and restore the center left, in my minuscule importance as one of the 177,000 who placed the country on this trajectory. This aide taught me how to sync via my hotspot, something Andreas from ATT couldn’t do for all his concerted efforts. I’m grateful, despite the iPhone unreliability. Guilt on my conscience is another matter.

The Dining Room Table

When I could still enjoy solitaire as a form of recreation rather than psychological duress, some of my favorites were the two deck game, St. Helena, and the small table game, Four Seasons. I made Four Seasons harder than it is on Warfield’s software, allowing only one move on the tableau per pile. I won rarely. Another was Hit or Miss (or Roll Call), a simple count and discard game, Accordion, and oddly enough, Perpetual Motion, which is a simple pattern game which can last a long time. I would not recommend playing it on the device, in my teenage mind which had no idea I’d plummet back into this distraction at this age, not helping myself. I have to wean myself away from all this awhile, upset that I allowed Karina to prey upon my sympathies, giving her money to wash my hair. Instead of being conscientious about the matter and giving me advance notice that her mother would be entering hospice, she took my money without finishing what she started, flimsy woman. I read this a long time ago in her and knew better and the Muslim, who is up in arms that I’m ditching TLC even though I’ve told her this for weeks, won’t do it, and my father’s ex attendant, whom I said I was going to hire on my dime, won’t shut the fuck up, so much so I’m having second thoughts about honoring my verbal assurances to her. She lost her mother too. “When Momo calls what you going to say?”

This is Saran, the big African child who cleans my stool five days a week. What does she think I’m going to say? I am a racist Momo and I’m sick of your accents and skin color, sick of not being able to have any time to myself, at all. I may not be dying, but my strength is gone, and all I have is my mental capacity struggling against my mechanics, not even positive I can trust my uncle’s company to restore my independence just a little. Mike altered what he sold me, but I shall never be fully functional in this machine, and it may be too late; fine, but I am losing my ability to cope. In Philip K Dick’s Electric Dreams, this peels off under your thumbnail like mica, a sad series, aptly casting Terrence Howard and his moral rectitude, carrying the burden of incendiary individuals like myself on his back. For me, this is going to bed early. I will make edits tomorrow after the Jewish nurse dashes off. She has achieved nothing in terms of making things better. I am under no illusions about moving on, what I’ll continue to face.

Elbow Curvatures, Cast Off

You can also be addicted to hate.-- the manufactured paraplegic of Emerald City

Even though the majority frame it this way, and this includes me, and Blogger, in my antipodean merger of aggression and trolling and gleefully rationalized spree killing, mourning that I shall never have the luxury of splitting Richardson’s skull open before disappearing into the dusk: the nigger with her protruding frog eyes and buck teeth conniving, she has beaten me. She contracted my father and his sister into hiring a cleaning service which wiped out my command of my domain. I did give my notice, but it is extreme duress not to have any control of my own space, and in a power chair in which my strength has been wasted. I cannot use this bucket seat for anything else but driving myself around, with emaciated ligaments screaming at me in pain to quit. I’m crying in small episodes, revealing my darker side to this sumo wrestler Muslim I lose in 13 days. She is a stupid fat bitch, hurting and bruising me up, and this is the dues I’ve paid to the Obama Administration. I cannot be ugly with the stupid fat Muslim without generating more crisis. It’s Barry Levinson, it’s Oz, at a pace more malingering and cruel, only slower. My only crime: getting overwhelmed with poor central planning and bad nutrition, living past 55. I might as well be nigger prag (not that I’ve translated the slang for prison rape) not that anyone is fool enough to engage in domestic insurrection for me. The joke is orthopedic medicine and disability activism hasn’t tortured me enough: the ambulatory majority, applying brute force, telling me to adapt, has decimated my strength, and when you’re bowed down in concentric circles, in such a fashion, the deployment of free speech, advocating for men like Craig Brittain only illustrates the fact that aligning myself to the far right hasn’t deregulated me into a safe haven. I messaged Craig once after Twitter allowed him to return. Could he pick me up at the Texas border? Dead serious, I did not persist, and no libertarian has truly befriended me. Suicide, or regimented agony until I careen into the inevitable death spiral, digital connections have left me on my own. Not that it was my right to impose on Mark, across the pond, or even Craig, but I was looking for an individualist willing to at least partially take on the burden I represented, they themselves not realizing, Craig, particularly, that companies are not beholden to the First Amendment. Jack has the perfect right to give Twitter the personality of a smore, and Google can shut me down for my embrace of violence as part of the simian psyche out of which we evolved, though in my case, it is more for an agenda than indiscriminate mayhem. It is now amusing that I was willing to take a ban for a cautious oddball who dumped my account despite my loyalty. What does it matter now? My anus, urethra, every bit of my biology weakened. Nine weeks, a cacophony of bitches telling me this is how it has to be, unless I have the strength for poison, if I haven’t waited too long.  

Cognitive Dissonence

I had an appointment with another troubleshooting repair business from fast acting Home Advisor, but canceled, for the time being, as Office conversion and recovery is the least of my problems, as kid brother reminds me, my spastic life is an embarrassment of riches, not that I have translated it as well as manu. I did like his trek economics approach in his interview with Thiel, and as a dead cat owner thrice over, I understood how his dying cat Cosmo was a stresssor, me and a number of other account holders, but his tweets are as flaky as mine are flushable, and I just removed him. Not that this matters terribly either, if I will have to put my accounts in abeyance for the time being. His pop tech approach was developed for me to teach, at the turn of the century, but I could not pivot of the mattress without a radiator gut protest alert, so my notice, unfortunately, will drag on a bit, at the discretion of Trudy's use of force against my so so viral animus, which drove off the ACLU black guy in the MA area, I believe.

Am I suicidal, under the circumstances? Should I be? I am laughing a bit, the mighty warrior, losing the round she always does in radiated vapor, my fourth feline, and she, being the least of them, not helping, as she soiled some paper, which will be bagged, shortly. Search found me a contact location I can drive to on my own. I realize there are waiting lists, but I hope they will let me use my urinal in their shelter bathroom while I sort out the destination dance, whether it be the end of the road, or a last effort to freedom from fear. I do not like African American contra indicator culture very much, aside from their urban brutality, and still feel, as liberal educational programming has pointed out in relation to indigenous populations of the Northern hemisphere, that the original African, the first among us, are being evolved out, even if never vanished, entirely. I know it doesn't work that way, but their skins are lighter. Ice Tea is certainly not fresh out of the Congo, for instance, just as I know I am gunning for time I do not have, but lets dwell on it a moment: just because black collectivism, with its stoic humility, makes me turn up my nose, I would not pick an ADA client, or a Caucasian, for a job, just because my racial prejudice is now intensified: I just never want a black person to come within ten feet of my personal care. That is the way it is, in my lovely deployment of social Darwinism.

Drums Along The Mohawk

"But we won." --Henry Fonda

I begin to take a dim view of IT technicians as a whole. They should be able to assist me better than they do, whether it’s Geek Squad or PhillyTechGuy or the vendor Tom Cook who did not do what he said he was going to do. These men can walk, they have automobiles. I never stiffed them, and it is always the same game of chicken: I still view myself as a failed scholar. They see a bull dyke in rags, I suppose, one that shares the same urgency as Constance Sumner, but in a different context. I need something else for these last months with my cognitive ability still intact, and if I cannot get it, then mocha bug bran women like building manager Trudy Richardson will have a self-fulfilling prophecy. “We don’t know each other,” she says. Fuck that. She is a nigger fascist as sure as I’m road rage ready to die in authority’s restraints, but if black arrogance has been particular, illegally cruel, on the other end of the spectrum, Caucasians aren’t really giving me appropriate levels of support. Cook has to make a living, but so do I, and I’m in a bit of a bind, one which he claims he can unravel, but he should have done this the first time. I cannot do everything by myself, and though I don’t expect social media to fall over itself coming to my aid, my viewers aren’t of much use either. I mean, I have taken my share of adversity, still forced to live with fringe homosexuals who think 60 style protests is a panacea for institutional medical care, and I’ve taken my share, getting gob smacked like Jody Foster in the insidious opening to The Silence of the Lambs, but I haven’t been devastated by natural disaster (though governmental incompetency may be a sufficient substitute) and should take heart, and work around this obstacle. Except it is my life’s work, and I am still trying to compete in the mainstream, and ta ta, one laptop death takes a fucking month out of my life, when I should be in bed. But my biological rhythms liven between midnight and five am, so I write as if I was still pulling an all nighter for exams. This is my way of being as skeptical of the right as I am of the left. What good is it if no one hears the narrative? 

I cannot claim to have a personal relationship with libertarians. Locally, John you used my name in print with feigned offense, he knows me best, but there is friction between us, as my Roman malevolence truly did widen his eyes, the not cool aging invalid who would delight in guerrilla warfare. If I had the ability to command, there is my solace, in the fanaticism of destruction. In lieu of Apocalypse Now, my father opens his checkbook, but this is tantamount to giving the Ebola virus an aspirin, and I do not see Richard Spencer letting my Machiavellian intellect usurp the niche of his ethnographic conceits, but, absent that personal relationship, tracking men like the muted Tony Stiles and politicos like Austin Petersen interests me. I knew of Austin by name long before social media, and I said to myself, researching him, years ago, so this is a radical, then subsequently discovered this is not the case. Austin isn’t a radical, but my blood lust, that is radical. I am very hard in certain aspects, and agree with Austin’s healthcare privilege view because he is right. All you have to do is observe. Claiming healthcare “rights” obliterates the quality of care issue, and with all medical resources limited as they are, Jimmy Carter’s cancer treatments and McCain’s poor prognosis glioma take away from others. There may be no direct link to my quality of care chain, but nonetheless, it is still a triage of association. Men of stature in 80^th and 90^th decades limit preventative resources for others with more optimal survival, and I may take a swipe at hard policy posts as time allows. That I vaguely recollect Roy Moore's removal from the Alabama bench at all is a mystery.

Engorged Twilights of Dirty Old Men

Lillian Rogers was an old black woman long before I allowed Terri Way to blindside me into coming to Riverside Presbyterian. She was one of the last of the original tenants to have lived here, had no family to speak of, and insisted that people cared about me, which is something of a misnomer. If people truly cared, by the standards of the country I live in, I would have had justice, instead of majority discrimination, and then, relentless persecution, but I cannot fault a simple minded Bible thumper for this, one who role played an artificial family for herself. Nightline produced a segment on this, a social construct story, supposedly illuminating how the oppressed fill in the gaps, while the Liberty On The Rocks chapter is all over the place, dancing in Media, drinking on Passyunk Avenue, and I am stressing about not snapping at another technician whom I do not trust, aging out of relevance, an incongruity in a suburban dance club even if I wasn’t approaching the emaciation of a sixtieth decade, knowing no more than any active reporter about Tamblyn’s veracity over and above that of Woods. I know nothing about either celebrity. I recognize one, obviously, through television syndication, and the little more I’ve learned since suggests a compatibility of rebellion. In the case of Woods, this draws in The Hollywood Reporter. For the quadriplegic, it draws the cruelty of objectification, from government civil servants, and one unfortunate police officer, which no doubt earns confusion from liberals who want to feel my pain: I virtually ignore Tamblyn’s account, despite the preponderance of the evidence in her favor, and joined instead with Woods 800,000 minions, liking five or more of his tweets. Why is this? Because my own sex augmented my trauma once too often, despite the monstrosity of my mother’s co-dependency lovers and her dysfunctional, abusive, horse shooting second husband. Even the mixed race paraprofessional who hit on me has her side of the story, probably believing she was offering succor to an invalid otherwise discarded, and you do, after all, discard, don’t you, against the anguish I balance on the wire, as daring as any circus daredevil, but for the sturdiest of account followers paying attention, or you shrug, not seeing any alternatives in the choices with which I am faced, except to still enjoy my coffee while I can, and disagreeing with Jacob Sullum about Woods confusion with legality of consent: we expect law enforcement to police sexual standards. Any SVU recycling would tell us that, while my unfortunate foster cat purrs on my hip, and our moments move with lightning speed. I booted the ever vivacious and slightly autistic Jeffrey F Tucker off my feed. He is a good columnist, but I have nothing more to gain from his tutorials to young turks. I’m the anti-tutorial, the fuck you tutorial, figuring I have to change my approach if I have any hope left towards future commissions. If Tom the equally stressed site visit technician cannot restore my files, the lacuna between the late Lillian Rogers and I is a matter of degree, as I exist in the press, lack of collected whole notwithstanding. If I can stop him, however, I may move Cook’s visit up. Starvation diet has deflated the strength of my sail.

Rogues

I can be lazy every so often and be entirely unremarkable, even though my father is still alive at 81, and my maternal grandmother bridge spans three centuries, her age lost to me if not her birthday, 12/18-- my mother collapsed at 62, so of course, my 56th year, scrawny, dry, soiled, and even slightly gnarled, quietly out of sight, makes me nervous. Death will relieve me of mortal psychological anguish, and I'll die alone, no Schiavo with a second wife to be caressing me while I starve and growl like staggering motorcycle pistons, god have mercy and give me save haven from bulge eyed niggers who talk chewing feces, god have mercy. I pray this daily and constantly and don't hear Richard Spencer leading a stampede, but Thomas's death, at 69, is interesting in the context of his late roles. He was the husky bookseller facilitating whatever elements of the actual resistance is in High Castle, and though A Strange Affair is an insipid watercolor, Thomas at least has the more significant energy as a traitor any besieged wife  might desire to concussion and get off despite doing it. How William Russ gets any work at all points to the tenacity of cliche, as in greeting card verse. 
Sixty nine; bit young for a wiry Texan.

My sole surviving Austrian grandmother courtesy of my cousin before she was placed, demented pic.twitter.com/rPoAwc0MjV

— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) July 12, 2017

.

you have a rotten mouth yes I do grandmom Pauline, in the blackguard of my tantrums, the likes of which I shall not punish myself with merciless detail, but I love this woman; her youngest daughter, now too in the era of ailments, hives, replacement joints, is almost 70. I am setting myself up, quietly, plotting. I have nothing to lose.

Manifest Compressions in Option A

"A cordon sanitaire was created around us. Don't go near the Le Pens." -- Marine Le Pen

Sitting up past bedtime, contemplating my lack of species optimism, I skimmed through Michael Gerson's column on Trump's Harrisburg rally, where he quotes Havel on the politics of the possible, the Kantian high road against Trump's illegitimate anti-immigration bigotry, comparing it to mine, mostly in house, against primarily four linear minded black women, realizing that national analysts by necessity cannot look at the localized details of the communities in which we abide. I pity Trump, distain him as well, but have to acknowledge his divisiveness speaks to certain truths, as I spent part of nine o'clock watching a true crime video of hip hop and heroin. Despite my inner city quicksand tragedy, my immersion into black culture never went that far. I was disgusted by what I was viewing; by the same token, I am too tired, too worn down, to worry about the concourse of Google's censorship, if I deign to use my mouth as my weapon. Not all blacks utilize counter culture music as a front for subterranean drug culture, but if we took Gerson off his beltway establishment deadlines, and his vaunted efforts to roll back Trumpian myopia, and had him instead share a cell with crack hoodlums filmed for the sole purposes for exposure to minority gang culture, the conscientious anxieties of Eastern European humanism, filtered through a true conservative professional rhetorician, always wary of Slavic bears, would come face to face with ghetto machismo; it might be likened to two alien species, one of whom could barely interpret the other. The urbane would fracture against such brutalism, and most of us realize this. Education does not change how expendable most of us beneath the surface are. For every Sheryl Sandberg, with her pedestrian sentiments about making elbows in the creek for option b, there are undoubtedly 300,000 people on minimum wages, fixed incomes, and Sandberg's job is what, exactly? Running Facebbok's automated systems, as if this is somehow vital, a billion images with a few hundred words per post attached. Immigration, at its core, is about mobility as a counter agent to community stagnation, and we have complicated it for thousands of years. Citizen versus foreigner. Global conglomeration and transport technologies accelerate it, but only on the presumption that journeys are survivable, however affordable or not they are.

Not that I'm any expert, but Jackson simply used a superior military strategy to destroy indigenous inhabitants, and open the Midwest for non-landed gentry. Today we call it development, a revolving door between government, industrial, residential spaces, with varying degrees of turnover, unless it all falls apart, driving around in our vehicles, stealing wifi, dying in hospice, or ever sure fire African famines. I'm old, miraculously survived through sterile regimentation, on the verge of homelessness because I'm stuck, after a lifetime of inefficient hydraulic lockdowns, driven to offices, rehabs, facilities. My great grandfathers were Austrian solders and Roman artisans. I curse their graves.