"Knowledge has replaced faith." --Kathy Baker, holding the fort
Having taken a look at Patreon, it is not a suitable venue for me. If they think a Canadian like Southern will get people killed, my beliefs about violence as an argument would shock them. Yes, I played nice, on the main, however stark some of my sentiments, on Niume, and the English left allowed me to vent, mildly, but Niume's staff seem to eat pastoral ecology like smores. However decorative its web interface, it genuinely isn't a collective for me, and Virily isn't a community for angry disabled Americans with anarchist streaks. I haven't given up on Virily, and they seem a little sharper than Niume, but my writing for Baltic states mimicking the west, methinks, must necessarily be limited. I was also mistaken about Due, and while not judging them, I am not entirely sure what they believe they can do for me. Note to Due: I live on a very limited disability entitlement, like many in Japan, most of the Southern Hemisphere, etcetera, and wading through LinkedIn millennials trying to find some work I can do again in limited fashion has proven futile. You seem to be a consumer award venue of some kind of which I am not entirely clear, but I'll give it time. What this means is I don't know how to divorce myself from Blogger. Wordpress would boot me in record time, from what I've gathered over the years, and I'm not quite hyperbolic enough, in IS fashion, for the dark net, even if the dark net twitter account -- the one I'm thinking of, could teach me how to do all those server bounces, and this would be the case even on days of stressed expletives. This said, if Southern and I had a hypothetical fight, I'd plow her in on the inside of five minutes, so I cannot see why Patreon had a panic attack. I am not trying to personalize anything, just to caution readers. I never heard of her before Scoop, and she seems a possible ally; nor was I spurious about riding her comet tail for a profile, I am only saying I can knock the ambulatory world on its myopic ass with neither regrets nor second thoughts. The Damore saga has whet my interest, intensely, but I cannot capitalize on it just yet. The so called "screed" obtained by Gizmodo seemed a relatively innocuous, drippy skim. I think we need to sit down and reconsider what we're doing with computer technologies.
"When I was a little kid, I had a problem with God," David Carradine, Endless Highway, location 1
The Newshour itself belies Paul Krugman's righteousness when it runs stories about the naval yard worker who got his skull crushed in by the very piece of equipment of which he complained, because here we have yet another mode of horrifying existence, a human named John Williams operating on one half of a hemisphere, past any age beyond viable recovery, whose care takes away from the more functional who are no longer welcome contributors to recruiters. I am not a regular reader of Krugman, and do not know what all his bullet points are on tax and spend, and I am capable of distinguishing between his advocacy of rationed systems as not being responsible for the corruption embedded within them, while still being angered by the fact that he blinds himself to the suffering beneath these compliance models, the video footage of Williams horrific countenance just more gawker shock, the kind of modern peeping tom recoil, which, if run on PBS, or investigated by Politico, is a secular hagiography, similar to this Mephistophelian waltz over McCain's decline. It is not my business to tell eligible voters in Arizona to relinquish their maverick, but how is it this on which we hang our hats? VT Halter is not the villain simply due to the fact that heavy metal construction is dangerous. Risk is a fact of life, and if American workers can't accept it, then walk away. What is it we expect, that civilian regulators can snap their fingers and eliminate hazard? But when harmless if overzealous tweeters like Sherry Willoughby post about blackheads and human hyper parasitic issues, they get suspended by social media administrators for spam. Normally, I stop following people like Sherry, but left him in peace in case he came up with something useful. I am the one who should be banned. Sherry just wanted attention. I want to overthrow government and restore some form of retrenchment, but because I am a battered invalid, one whose ethics have been repeatedly trampled, I'm given latitude, at least until I initiate my plan to agitate. I cannot yet discuss this in detail, as the agrarian neanderthals Trudy and Debra, with their slovenly minority postures, are capable of adducing my intentions. It isn't that I'm not sorry for Williams wife. We're all capable of commiseration, but yes, defense capability is more important than surviving a graphic injury which in any normal parameters, we shouldn't. I'm the spastic outcast forcing herself on the energies of a dynamic libertarian youth, a spastic outcast fully versed in institutional hells, despite all the regimentation we deploy, and my first instinct is to cry for legal euthanasia for cases like these, not that I know enough. Perhaps he is partially cognizant, and we'll all foot the bill for his cranial reconstruction.
Niumeimploded my expectations in one fell swoop. I was all set to monetize and jump in, expecting my own little niche, and hit a brick wall in a cascade of what the fuck utterances. They have no hyperlink code, just a You Tube link, or Vimeo, and I am not huge on generating my own graphics. My nerves have been sufficiently unsettled, and my account sign up is probably doomed. I say wait a little, we'll see, but I built up all that wariness to enter preschool, a bit of fluff, for nothing. The Ryanism summarized by McDuffee in 2012 coincides with the interplay I saw between the Speaker and Judy Woodruff last evening, but liberals are apparently fain to see Paul Ryan as the Rational Monolith, standing as the bulwark of last resort against the Donald, who, in reality, is Lucifer's vessel, without seeming to sufficiently recall, even though Dickerson said it on PBS, that after John Boehner's fractious departure, Ryan put out a press release, stipulating, "I am not running for Speaker," and there was, in the House, a bit of a Freedom Party bromide, and then Ryan was the conciliatory consensus choice. He did stand up to Trump during the election, and the center left is being unreasonable in its expectation that Ryan will fall on his sword because old New York bull is behaving like a bull. I did vote for Trump, and my damaged mind believes it is able to read into him, and my invective is worse than his: If I described, in detail, whose neck I wanted to break, using my footpedal as a garrote of hatred, the poor happy playful employees who keep Blogger healthy would have a problem, and the dowager understands that getting too specific in her intent challenges law, regardless of whether or not she has the strength to overtake certain persons frightened of her, and have her moment of Hannibal liberation. I am a diabolical mind of smoking vengeance. Trump is an reactionary protectionist asshole, and I cannot respect him, nor his solutions. If the Speaker, or Senator Toomey, for that matter, chose to upbraid me that for such a smart invalid you know better, what would I do? I'd look Toomey straight in the eye and say, then be my avenger, punish them, give me justice, then hire me to to lay progressive America to waste. I understand Ryan, his sense that inclusion solves the isolating friction of identity politics, but he cannot undo the damage of southeastern state incompetence that created and fosters aggression. There is no Right Hand of Time, to append a Thomas Lux title, to put me back to a vigorous 35 of twenty years ago, as my twitter numbers jump during episodes of inactivity, sag when my militancy shines. It is depressing, impossible to take seriously, or vicariously live within my timeline for too long, which is why, if, when I'm ready, I press twitter's staff about Craig, it is making access to the micro blog more important than it is. Discussing the twitter ban list on twitter is more of a provocation than a quadriplegic angry enough to critically injure expendable, fairly vacuous, African American oppressors. Back to work.
In reading about Pharmo Bro and Duca, without tweeting about it, I in my turn haven't been obstinate enough to harass my enemies in public. The last thing I ever emailed to Josie was I will never be civil to you, then booted her off my group. I know what she would say. What she did by lashing out at a trade journalist before whom I dangled myself, deliberately-- (in contrast, I would not dare breach my interaction with Jeffrey Tucker by complaining about vaginal yeast) was wrong, she apologized, and I do not help myself by letting rabid lesbianism stick in my craw. She's moved on and I am on the verge of death spiral homelessness. I am, however, the spastic quadriplegic all by her lonesome, even with data available which illustrate most cyber flings fail. That I will never be civil to you was an incoded murderous rage, which my intellect knows isn't worth the trouble. Cecil Morales may have had a passing interest in my puerile extroverting, but he thought I wanted a husband, and his bite was as vicious as my own, worse. He had a failed marriage, and my ghost of a dead spic came later. Killing the den mother of New Mobility won't give me back any opportunity for golden years comfort with the right fellow. Shrekli and Duca have debarked the gen X trail, the shadow of the sixties like an ancient taxidermy model ready to collapse at the slightest motion, an open door. I did no work. After I logged off yesterday I went to the store, yes, sick, for soup, a little fruit, watched most of O'Neal in The Driver again, this time memorizing Adjani's sympathy toward the protagonist, then knocked over a large slate milk crate which serves as an ad hoc vanity table, stacked with tomes. I am, oddly enough, desperate to get in O'Neal's head about this film, and have to move. I want O'Neal. Walter Hill is self-explanatory. But Ryan O'Neal, at least live, with the mask off, seems petty, vain. He had a good run, next to most of us, but not, however, as zealous lone wolf willing to live a monastic existence solely to be the best.
