Nothing so infuriates me as a magnate and politician estimated to be worth nearly 45 billion USD grandstanding about commitment to equality as the best pathway to success. Very few people have ever commented on my account, perhaps due to bafflement, but excluding the fact that I maintain the same online access Mayor Bloomberg has, how in God's name am I his equal as an American?
My own relatives want me to go to some quasi-assisted living facility, Blogger wants me to convert to something or other because I'm upsetting the middle class; to volunteer for Pat Toomey I have to groom and haul my carcass to New Wales, which is like putting Stephen Hawking on Star Trek. How am I equal to the ambulatory world? Cough it up people, come on:
Will Smith is not an actor in the aesthetic sense when we use the phrase "great performer". He is competent only in following the beat in his scripts, and this he learned through the audience track in Fresh Prince of Bel Air, which in turn made him likable in Men in Black, but when you examine the porous fatalism of Seven Pounds against the image of Liberians left lying in thoroughfares as no more than rabid animals, Gabriele Muccino's proportionality is a very dangerous game we play with ourselves through the filter of the studio system. The lie of balanced scales. The Jennifer Lopez vehicle Angel Eyes does the same thing only slightly less stupidly, not offering up any sacrificial remorse as it leaves its principal characters rough around the edges in the aftermath of a vehicular tragedy, unlike Tim, who for some inexplicable reason literalizes Christian cannibalism as expiation for the gratification of technology.
Propulsion engines simply are what they are, much like the distractions of cell phones, but disease?
Death, purely on the scales of evolutionary dynamism, seems to be necessary, but I have a hard time, just as anyone else, with the excruciating nature of excessive pain bequeathed to complex organisms, whether it is the bludgeoning death of cute mammals like baby seals for absolutely no reason, or an infectious agent like Ebola reminding us all that despite our unparalleled success as a species, we simply cannot act collectively to mitigate destruction without turning ourselves equally into soulless autonomic functionaries slaving away at the behest of an inexplicable agent. CDC authorities assure the developed world, however, that we have no reason to worry. Hogwash. Antibiotics and the concentration of our sick bodies in institutional settings gave rise to super bacteria like MRSA. There is no reason then, that Ebola, like AIDS, could not in turn adjust, and spread from West Africa and hit vulnerable sectors in China, India-- which is not to say the human body would not eventually adapt in turn, but the hubris of our faith in ourselves is nothing short of lunacy.
Though I am only chipping away at my antipodean retrenchment toward progressive horizontal planes that Yahoo correspondents whip up like fruit salad, and in fact wasn't going to post at all, since my cunt feels like it's being eaten alive in a granary silo, due to dryness, lack of healthy sexual activity--most of the men who weren't sexually assaulting me like pavement dung were otherwise impotent--I never had a very active sex life to begin with-- and when the bottle blond I hired hugged me and we both exclaimed "go girl," I wasn't sexually aroused and repressing it, merely relieved that I found a nice white twit in her thirties who feels compassion for my cash payment--when I move she suggested maybe she'd live with me, and it is possibly doable, with enough space for her young middle-aged sex life, her dirty finger nails and her enjoyment of trying to *glam me up,* like Susie back in the day (and did the former Susan Davison formerly my best friend have kids? Sue, I am old and in pain and miss you and the intimacy we had, you out there?) Ellen Page is impossibly shallow and narcissistic, which is why I oppose homosexual equality in the first place. There is no such thing as equality between heterosexual and homosexual and metrosexual latent eunuchs. Marriage, as such, is the invention of the city state, which eventually evolved into empires, then modern nations.
Monogamy, in humans, is a haphazard affair, necessary for the welfare of children. Like my former instructor, Jerry, I am diffident about marriage as a civilly regulated sanction, and I don't give a fuck that the LBGT mob unleashed by Andy Sullivan of whom I was once, briefly, an admirer, which is why the pompous Oxford twerk sent me a screen shot of the Amtrak building outside my window, I don't care that ferocious queers wants this legally regulated bond for themselves. Fuck LBGT activists. You want a piece of me, that's fine. I've suffered more than you and I'll kick you to the curb regardless of potential ostracism. There is no such thing as equality between people. Jesse Staub dicked with me and he was one of yours. He did not have to lie to me because he was conflicted about the condition of my unit, but he did, and caused me additional weeks of unnecessary stress. But that has nothing to do with Kathleen Kane being a good liberal unwilling to defend traditional marriage in Pennsylvania for when Staub meets his significant other. It doesn't cost anything, this monogamy for homosexuals, and in fact, creates new and unending venues for post nuptial litigation. Lawyers need to maintain the fact that their expertise is essential. If Charlie Rose gave me a corner the next time he had Andy on air, if I did not have such first hand experience with how deadly AIDS is, I'd eat Andy's ass for breakfast. I'd make headlines alright. I wouldn't have a damn thing to lose.
"I was filled with anticipation; the tension had grown to the point where I didn't want to have open space behind me." -- Bill Johnston translation, location 237
In the not so distant past, Hari Sreenivasan was the good guy, fighting for a more sound equilibrium among our numerous yet fragile masses. There are still many cases of egregious exploitation everywhere, but this PBS profile also has its own egregious tilt. Never mind the lack of any sort of sexual discipline in inner city communities; never mind the fructose-heavy husband who we can speculate has some sort of disability claim pending that games the system and hurts real chronic condition inclusion. We all game it these days, even me, playing evasion to the last resort, angry that I allowed desire to trap me here, even though I did not realize it in my twenties. In my own lack of efficacy, I did not realize my conservative provider had already activated the 5c. The tranquility, however temporary, is luxurious, yet hesitation remains. Utility and device. No one has ever quite sold me. Google and Amazon better than Microsoft, yes, but I will never quite see micro chip miniaturization as indispensable. My sister Stephanie, on the white end of slovenly entitlement, sent me a text. Can't open it. Still in the tutorial stage, but we'll get there, despite women with more children than they can handle. Who am I to judge with my over-extended self-reliance? If I was smart I'd euthanize Vinnie and send the little female back to the no kill track and neuter shelter. It may come to that, but I can scream common sense while I learn to post home shots. Don't have children you cannot afford, regardless of your position on termination.
Progressives need some sort of reigning in, some sort of personal responsibility, just as I knew, before I pulled on my last decent affinity with another woman, that disability center assurances were broken reeds, piercing though the palms, poor adductor. Too much proficiency may be dangerous, but universal leveling leads to collapse under its own weight. Twenty five words in to an abstract that has more layers than I supposed, the signatory status of an auteur we hope survives extinction. Demise. Distinction may be all we have, but it is not much of an answer to destructive overkill.
For the most part, the better part of valor, I forgive Stephanie, and little Benny. I understand their precarious dashed hopes, despite the fact that they believe in a straight jacket containment for spastic investments. I cannot, however, love them as fully as I used to before they allowed this city to grind me into chum. Children are important, but not so important that they narrow futurist import.
It was after this failed interview post that I noticed the probtheme link in my traffic sources, (it was also my birthday) and it led me to speculate on what my isp trackers thought I was capable of. Scalping sweet briar on a spear shaft? I care far too much about my own ego to pelt lesbians with egg shells, and leaving vitriolic imagery with boiling vats aside, the reasons I have drifted rightward from the progressive advocacy Catherine represents in her Barack deification (I know, I have been there, though not, insofar as it concerns the Obamas, with them) is because I have been tortured on the rack of the lie of social equality fifty ways from Sunday.
And my interview, fuck wits, was to campaign for Planned Parenthood. It is incumbent upon me that I did not ask the girl on the phone, whose name was Emily, the right questions before I showed up, and so I gift wrapped my parachute when I realized it would be next to impossible for me to field that degree of inner city travel.
However, my point to the gay marriage girls is exactly the reality check my physical limitations represent: Gay marriage is cosmetic. Including people like me in the real world is not. I might have been able to handle in office clerical duties and was shot down. By what metric my exclusion on the basis of my brain damage is progressive in terms of reasonable accommodation, this eludes me. Perhaps when Catherine lowers her brimming temperature, she'd have a few thoughts in response.
