lacrime per Argentina

I'm well over 20k in debt, thanks to the fact that this woman needed to draw me a picture about her orgasms,  before killing me with one of Tarantino's magic swords, a woman who is exactly the same, though she and I haven't exchanged 20 words with each other in 14 years. Pongo bitch delineating a tweak in the process, and voila, supported employment will give high function mentally retarded consumers more simulated affluence. I don't know what fucking planet she lives on anymore, essentially conceding segregation with equal treatment, remember that? Brown versus Board of Education was it? And with the default monkey on my back, I'd give a few of the most radical leftists a run for their money, bad hygiene, a threadbare 6 year old section 202 housing carpet, and I am giving a penny ante digital tabloid a hard time, sulking about them, and sore about my generosity with Karina, and it amounts to the same thing, in the charming phrase of Jerome Robart, it is about tariffs we place on good pussy, or in my case, good blow jobs. Despite the enviable image Ms. Dezenski has imprinted on me, clitoris as an actual allure doesn't work for me, and that was true even during my melt down right before Thanksgiving that November when I blew back on her and then became suicidal. I'll never forget that evening, alive and blogging to you now only because my mother had to die unexpectedly in 2005 and gave her children an insurance  payout. It vanished for my sister and half brother within the year.

I am right back where I started in 2006 after Miss Eddie from Unlimited Staffing molested me, with one exception. I haven't reapplied for Medicaid and SSI. I really don't want them, as regardless of the state in which you live, welfare of this sort is exceedingly restrictive, but I'm at a loss as to what to do next. 

If any of you would want the cash payment I gave Karina, which you wouldn't, it is ten dollars an hour basically to mop vacuum, laundry, at my discretion, except I can barely afford it anymore. I am on my last legs in a inner city Stalinist model that has caused me so much trauma. Linda is still a parrot, and I?

Let me tell you something. I cannot remember why I purchased David Mitchell's Cloud Atlas. The blame may lie with the New York Times reviewer, who was provoked to the height of sublime misery by Mitchell's work. I was so impressed by the fact that a writer made a blue blood unhappy that I had to have the book. When I finished it I then faced the most serious existential threat I had since I watched my stepfather torture little Nicky, my brother, before AIDS infected him. Mitchell made me cry. He caused me pain, because he made me realize I'll never have his talent. I staked my whole life on writing, on succeeding with it, on living up to the expectations of my most sympathetic teachers. I'm nothing more than a shit harpy whose former supervisor fucked up to the point of stoking hatred which thrives through centuries. 

Let me make one more point about Ray Rice and Janay: Now that I understand the extent of the player's violence toward his wife, we expect the NFL to arbitrate the behavior of its players. I'd tell Janay to get off her fucking ass, get a lawyer, and get a move on-- the league isn't going to succeed any better than the courts in protecting battered women. Those who know Janay need to make her realize she has to make her own meal ticket. A baller's wife may be a better surety than my talent with literature, but if Rice is injured or winds up killing her, then her security seems less certain.

On Polemical Nonsense

In my understanding of disability activist history, it is Justin Dart who is the father of the ADA, but in my mining of traditional video programing, part of my bible for this project, whether or not I resolve the ad banners issue, I find that Richard Pimentel is also considered a father of this penultimately useless statue, almost as if history decided to bifurcate superlative necessity by creating the homoerotic power fuck of the twentieth century, though the dichotomy is more likely related to semantic insecurity. This is so prevalent in disability culture that it's sickening, which is why, as I hurtle toward my biological entropy, I am sometimes deliberately uncouth. I can understand the emotionalism surrounding the word nigger, but what I would say to those of African descent is that I also have experienced life long bigotry and prejudice, and though at my half century mark I am almost so bent out of shape that nothing may glue me back together again toward a peaceful release, I look at it this way: Better to call me a cripple rather than police the word while society will continue to strip me of any practical freedom. In contemporary independent living parlance, caretakers are not caretakers, but attendants who *assist,* and the word client carries a horrendous stigma over and above the use of consumer. To me the latter is more offensive, even bovine, to the point that the classification known as "the consumer society," leaves a great deal to be desired. Activists frown, as well, on the recognition of pain and suffering, so as to not invite pity, which, as I have indicated, was an undesired effect of my brief exchange with Niall Ferguson. If it seems that I am hung up on the guy, do not be alarmed that this is to any unreasonable end. His ideas preoccupy me as a rational and optimistic conservatism of which I'd like to see more of, although his sex appeal doesn't hurt. Damning myself, I suppose, since I am pitching his name to try to get more work, and thus should forbid myself from posting in public that he is hot, but my good doctor, you are very hot indeed, and sexual desire has always driven my intellectual drive, a fatal flaw, woe and weal.

Where was I? Yes, dismantling IL ideology instead of wondering how many scholars actually resist these temptations successfully. Is giving in a fall from grace? I mentioned in my blogging past that Jerry was hot to me back in the day, and I am both glad and ambivalent about his angst over this. I stuck one of my notes in his inbox in my exuberant freshman days, and drove back to the elevator cubicle and saw him come out, sigh, rub his forehead, as if to ask himself "why me?" He did not seem conscious of the fact that I was spying on his reaction, and I will probably die with this imprint emblazoned on my scarred brain, the honesty of the ablest society to which I've always wanted to belong, the honesty of its sense of burden about me, the invalid pest with the mouth that doesn't know when to shut up, who wanted to be loved and love with a dithyrambic zeal, and the best I could get was a slobbering spic from the Bronx who had to stick his fucking hand up my ass in a simulated virility that was a death dance of a rebellious decline. My attachment to Joey was healthy by comparison, and my cat, as you know, is dead; then again, great sex is mostly the stuff of fiction. I did know a sister student who had an affair with my philosophy professor, and she was a sweet friend, but my envy at her success versus my failure is positively Shakespearean. To this day it goads me, even though she got hurt, and is partly the reason I do not talk about my philosophy professor, though I guess it could be worse. Cripples in China have to deal with real thugs. In America, you are only killed if you defy the paradigm, if you try to trust lesbians, other spastics, a crazy lady with spina bifida who terrorized black Paratransit drivers with her actions, but these days, wears the Janus face, and says the restrictions on use are justified due to functionality. I hope I never set eyes on Cassie James again. I think I'd enjoy wringing her neck. On a personal level this is unfair. Cassie had nothing to do with the fact that Linda was enjoying her chess match, using me like a pawn in a backfired power play while Cassie was freaking out over her difficult pregnancy on British soil. Cassie directs her anger outward, causing suburbanites to  deploy the self-interest of not seeing, but Cassie does this herself, rationalizing the crimes of her employer, doing nothing to rectify it. She may not have bipolar disorder, but her public profile reeks, a house divided against itself.