Giant

"Take a break." Melissa Horton, Yaberrz

I've already told myself that Niume is just another tool. My problem is the posts, taken collectively, drip like the orphanage gruel in Oliver Twist, the other Dickens masterpiece never read, so, on my last megabytes for this billing period, I am waiting for the prompts to kick in, and tomorrow, or later, my tweets to my posts will be invalid. Chrome autopass works on some sites. On others, it creates issues.

I do not know how many of you remember Rock Hudson, in his last days, coming out


I do. I have the memory of the news conference, live, in 1985, and here he is, a wasted consequence of both a sexually permissive society, and concealment based on sexual secrets, a matinee idol of my mother's generation, with her mania never fully, effectively treated until she gave birth to my half brother, and survived the heroin addict she wedded in mistake. Benjamin's father was a late diagnosed schizophrenic. For me, Hudson was a television star, the composite model for Blue Bloods Tom Selleck. I was much better off, a naive ignorant youngster who couldn't decode, and had fantasies of a happy middle class Italian marriage-- but my Pulchinella was barren, and he is a ghost.

I made my decision. I am not recertifying with this Presby building. Trudy Richardson, as far as I am concerned, is a hate crime criminal. The real reason Presby doesn't evict, is section 202 makes money putting senior citizens in hospices and homes. It is a consequential decision, and once the deadline passes, that is it. I cannot change my mind. They will move to evict, and I am the one who keeps taking it. I cannot do this forever.

I do not mean to take the collective human mentality all that seriously, but it is overwhelming me, my need for creative space.

Perverse Relief at Stella's Pounding

The problem with putting two and two together is that sometimes you get four, and sometimes you get 22.-- shamelessly culled from the now entrenched

Beneath the surface of its spoof, Trial and Error takes aim at the new exceptionalism: the excuse of the chronic condition for ineptitude, particularly, but carefully embodied in Sherri Shepherd's "blackish" magnification of matriarchal racial dysfunction, though ethnicity is also carefully obfuscated, redirected into our stereotypes of white trash southern ruralism, which D'Agosto has to navigate as the green shoot urbanite. Were the two episodes NBC aired funny? No. Lithgow cannot carry this comedy as the American Don Quixote, but the dowager will credit the writers this much: they remind us that shit happens, and veracity is not always balanced by Manichaean duality as exemplified by Daschiell Hammett's great noir sagas.

What did Goodreads ever do to me? Nothing, but I detest crowd funding banality! Even while, in my intrepid fashion, I'm hoping to get onto 23rd street tomorrow evening. After a storm, functional powerchair users combat automobiles by taking the street. The Quantum has stopped shorting, probably due to sacrifices made with personal hygiene, minimizing water vapor exposure. 

My certification looms. Stella has knocked my schedule and I am at war. I want to roll away before I commit a crime against ignorant persons I despise. I could also turn it into a referendum, dragging City Council and Toomey into it, Christ knows whom else. I have a few favored Pakistani store clerks, but I've told you already, I have a thing for the Asian male of the species.

Milo Refurbished, No Fecal Orifice Required

"If we find green alien goo or Spock's phaser, we'll let you know." --Joe Spano, recycling The X-Files, still soggy about the ears

While I am here, feeling guilty for wanting to stream another hyped black thriller to take a break, but not to worry, budget put it in a chastity lock, I thought of a wickedly explosive piece, which, if I could pull it off, might shine Trumpian flashlights in my direction, and break off some of Mile's glacier fury my way, but I have to pull it off first, and I remain uncertain that I can. We'll see. I could always post it here and be made fun of, [cf Masculine Culture, who shares an affinity with Tom Earle for the liberal call of "get involved," unless we're liable, then it's fuck off]. All I wanted to know from these boys is why they followed me, that's all. I was nice to a digital designing globe trotter, tweeted her respectfully when she found me. She bailed anyway. Hesitated, then booted her account, and then took Culture a bit sorely. If Libertarians follow me, I expect allegiance despite my stoking steam engine. It is here for all to read, and account holders run, shrieking for the hills, antagonizing some of us in turn. If I cannot sell it too, this tantalizing attack, I can always test poor Niume. Chuckle. Insofar as I am aware, I have no issues with Niume users, nor have any desire to poke pointy sticks. I put one mental in her place, sternly. But I am much like Bannon, from what I can infer, and Niume will have to weigh this eventually. I will speak my mind. The kids will gawk, get quite upset, report me. I caused a hugely divisive battle at Poet & Writers even before I decided murder and genocide were still a form of philosophical argument, before I openly claimed racism and homosexual hate my own.

For this evening, I am only going to rough the idea; I am working other things. 

Nicotine Hytonia

"Do you know what happens to cops who get ten million dollars? They eat their service revolvers."-- a still robust Samuel L. Jackson

I am trying not to panic about the Toshiba. The monitoring system is warning me I need a new battery once again and I simply do not have it. They run about 130 USD not including shipping costs, and that is basically it. I do not eat, and kimmy will be lucky to get fresh litter. I'll have to transfer myself back to my more expensive, older, HP, which will run on the adapter even when the battery fails, but it will still result in an episodic migraine. I almost certainly indicated to my audience, and most definitively indicated to Yabberz before I deactivated myself, blocked Melissa Nguyen Horton from following my feed on twitter, that my poverty is the most effective weapon against  me,  pushing back against her, politely mind you, as she did nothing wrong in the matter of my ambivalent user activity-- I also cannot stand BridgeToursJade, the card player she is elevating this evening to her pundit class (I have been online almost over twenty years and Jade has the dubious distinction of being able to obsessively out-post me into the nether regions of Sheol.)

My regret, if you like, is my exasperation for wasting my time when I already know better; in the context of a libertarian battle cry of "Remember the Alamo!" I also remember earlier virtual investments. and some of you may recall my pained mostly capital response, yesterday:

@poetswritersinc all those years of my tireless support and U STIGMATIZE The Disabled! Hypocrites!

— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) June 22, 2016

I do not suppose any of you care to know, outside of my taut, stricken nerves, why I was so impolitic to a probable student intern who is entirely ignorant about how far back I go with this organization, how strong my fealty was to Poets & Writers as a way of life: The climax of Under Suspicion, is, as NYT accurately observes, a clash of dramaturgic titans making an attempt at claustrophobic French imitation. Don't ask if Hackman was attempting homage, but he bravely pushes his dick where even I would fain to stray; it is a conflagration most of us deny in even the process of accepting the utterly plausible flashbacks of craven desire clinging to the lust, sheer lust, for existence.

Forest Gump

When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. => His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving.-- Evelyn Waugh, A Handful of Dust

Sensible people need to cease offering me sensible advice, like the office receptionist telling me I should be grateful for having a place to live, or a Linked In teacher going on in IM with beatitudes. Don't insult people. I mocked him by insinuating that I'm more sinister than I am. He did not get it and suggested I write a poem. Linked In earned my nearly instantaneous derision for this, and its threads. Fuck Lyneshia and her gratitude. Fuck people telling me to let the cruelty of Liberty go, or to stay positive. People who tell me this have traveled, had their careers.

What I face, with a near inability to reverse it, is statutory punishment for failure, on the basis of having done nothing wrong except fleeing Widener University and trying to succeed on my own terms. I've watched Erik the unethical transvestite transform from a facetious shyster into a living mummy, literally, one who thinks he's helping me after he skirted embezzlement charges and put his homosexual arrested development lover ahead in the game because the two of them are so low on the totem pole they're entitled to elbow straight arrows like me into a sewer.

I am tired of hearing it. Forgiveness. Do you know what happens to people like me without any financial security? A nigger on the down low pawing at me eight years ago is just the tip of the ice berg in comparison to what bed ridden dependence has in store when I am over sixty. I really don't see why I shouldn't utilize some criminality for some justice on my own. Robert Durst seems to have escaped with coveted privilege into a rabbit hole. All Good Things is a well made suspense tale, but what it leaves behind is bafflement. Why was all of this necessary? What triggered so much distress? 

Moderated For Relevancy

I have no desire to use Linked In and its network to be subversive, push the envelope, be malicious, or to shred the reputation of my former supervisor into pork patties. I would not get away with it, and like most who use the service, I am there to network. I also give Richard Gent's "English Language & Literature" credit for reminding me that deconstruction can be light hearted. Instructors hold keys to the profound no more than anyone else. As one or two of the blunt Britons on the James list told me years ago, "Do your own research." It is not their fault that I have logistical impediments.

But if Linked In is representative of the Facebook model, the First Amendment is dead on arrival, and Blogger only tolerates my posts because I am not urging my viewers or my audience, or the few readers I may have who attempt to sort out my damaged brain chemistry, to kill my enemies for me. What would be in it for them would only be the quid pro quo of my traumatized mind, and there are no guarantees an obligation like that would pay off.

What corporations allow as written speech and do not allow, however, is eminently frustrating. The context of how I mention Examiner.com makes me a spammer even if the intent of my post was to discuss fair use. Or did Jay take exception to the fact that I mentioned his name? I literally do not know if I should use Linked In Groups or not, and was assertive with a group manager, moderator, and LI's customer service. Used the censure of removing myself to make a point of *disadvantaged status* without invoking the ADA, and the moderation flag then vanished.

But this is how we talk today, and I'm trying to salvage a modest level of respectability as I spangle into the recesses of the matronly with only the bittersweet left in turbulence, and Linked In has many writing communities. Connections with sympathetic editors are valuable, someone out there may be able to customize a work model for me that would at least keep me above indigence. Backing away entirely is not in my best interest, ludicrous as the model appears to be in actions and traffic.

The addition of the moderation process is not an assessment of your posting quality. Rather, it's designed to equip all group managers to screen content from members who've been blocked from other groups. "

How and why was I blocked from other groups? 

Stigmatized

I thought I was doing okay on Linked In groups, but no. My posts have been "flagged as irrelevant or spam" though I cannot say anything about who my plaintiffs are. This is depressing me very badly because I have tried to keep an even keel, and now feel unfairly treated by a mass aggregate.

I am excited by ISIS. I am not Sunni, and apparently not even a disabled female worth the benefit of the doubt, but I hope they win. Fanaticism at least gives its adherents something to believe in.

Hollow Log

Billowing tirade, I splintered on my ex today, unfairly, hissing at the glamorization of Michael Sam's sex life, then roaring I would nuke the entire eastern seaboard if I could, then disconnected the 5c in tears. Nuking the entire eastern seaboard implies that anguish has that degree of magnitude: I cannot break what binds my future asceticism, and my pissant student loan debt which is going to crush me, with or without putting myself back on Medicaid.

If I find Frank and his bulk on his hospital bed and his Hoya lift repugnant, with a running price tag he has cost Pennsylvania well over 100, 000 dollars, I should have the decency to leave him alone, regardless of my nerves. My rage was about the sand pit sucking me under. My landlord repeatedly broke the law, letting seniors harass me freely for years, and yet because I then roar at Trudy, who is just trying to be a good matriarchal black nanny, I have to let all that go. Vulnerable cripple with target right smack on her back. My disability center breaks state and federal law so often that they are a running joke, and I have to let all that go, poets and writers in a unified front regrettably parked my digital ass out the door because I had an insurrectionist rage in relation to all this, and they are about selling craft to refine talent. If I want to be Henry Miller with jugs, then hey. P&W has to vacuum in writing students. Go staple your brain, spastic.

George has MS. He doesn't rave. He writes well crafted short stories with a mildly sinister aspect. I met him and his wife at an Abington bookstore in my little manual chair, bored out of my mind. "I talk just like I post on Speakeasy don't I?"
"Yes," he nodded.

"I think it is enough," this is what he posted on the boards as Dana, the moderator, and Gretchen, the melodramatic southern novelist, closed ranks and banned my account. Whatever the inflammatory nature of my rhetoric, I had residents of Riverside throwing bars of soap at me, while this man, writing with the hope of saving troubled teens, ostracized me after having met me and I purchased First Tiger, his early YA novel. I wonder if my neighbor and follower Ed knows that about my history with this building, that I was physically pelted. Doubtlessly not. He suffers too and doesn't let it throb where dialysis evidently disfigured him. The horror of such group stigmatization doesn't go away with a snap of the fingers.

Weigh this. Weigh this against a history of medical disfigurement, life long sexual victimization, then come back at me with Atwood's salutary apologia for Toni Morrison's embodiment of dignity in endurance. Language signifies the reality of the flesh, but it isn't tangible. There is no reason to run into similar troubles at Linked In. It is simply a career resource site, and I do not have the time, but this is why I fear mass aggregation.

I forgot to add, with economic contests such as this, the voices of the dead recounting Sunset Blvd seems charmed, indeed.

Fear of Crowds

I joined a literature group on Linked In with over 30k members, and, if I allow myself to get familiar, my posts on Blogger will probably lead to Crucifixion by affluent professionals with children, and I kid with ye not that the anxiety in my chest is palpable. I am the mouth who managed to get banned from Poets & Writers, the New York Times Book forum, that for writing an angry ditty about a crotch on a stick, which was stupid on both ends; the Literature Network decapitated me without so much as a gunshot over the bow; the Jamesians are probably alienated by my impatience with arcane detail (with the exception of their personalities), and I'm moving hell at high tide for a new source list. Twitter shrugs. Twits can tweet fuck if they want to, and no doubt finds the spastic dowager amusing. I don't worry about twitter. Twits pointing guns and threatening airlines are more problematic than my poverty and plight in Philadelphia. Do I stand by my reactionary output? My online travail is a reflection of lifelong victimization, swallowed whole in public welfare America.

Do I cower? Will Blogger close my account before I hit delete if I hit delete? There are more ways to push boundaries than by expressing outrage with expletives worn out from wards of state at the bottom to Under secretaries of state saying "Fuck the EU," on Russian audio capture. 

Hot Air

THE revolutionary idea that defines the boundary between modern times and the past is the mastery of risk-- the Economist, world authority.

I always do this. Convince myself to stay up and work after cat care, eating, defecation-- which always tires me-- and then manage to fritter my weariness away on an overly focused awareness of the tinnitus giving my ear drum a steady buzzing. The one PBS segment for which Miles O'Brien has my gratitude is his short piece on tinnitus. I do not know if I revolt after this post and push myself, but people, the one division between spastic brain damaged viewpoints and ablest viewpoints which may never be overcome is why you engage in such unnecessary behavior.

This balloon crash is an entirely manufactured tragedy, much like the deaths in Ukraine, which should not be happening. Those 14 page views from Ukraine sober me, because I have a distaste for Euro-centric sectarian deaths, and may get myself in serious trouble by giving Russian security services and the EU a piece of my mind. I'm a powerless, defenseless, unhappy writer living in one of America's oldest cities founded by Quakers, and I receive 14 page views from an Eastern European country killing itself over Russian hegemony and western capitalism. This because I am acerbic and callous, but not acerbic and callous enough not to condemn the Russian Federation for the deaths of Litvinenko and Berezovsky. Their murders represent a misguided savagery, even in a world where brutality is contingent, but not the way Putin's actors go about it. I joined a Linked In group, and if I get active on the site, I'll probably be banned due to this blog-- not that I think much of Linked In. It is less confusing than Google Plus, but what of it. Relatively educated people can be inane.

All technologies have risks, but hot air balloon gliding is an absolutely unnecessary form of flight.

... And Clench

Remember the Microsoft commercial with the deaf girl signing in the Bill Gates utopian sense, that there were no disabilities online? It is not true. I am alienated wherever I go, no matter whom I talk to, or what I do, barring a stranger's lack of familiarity. It may be what I get for hanging out with pompous assholes who flatter themselves over rhetorical expertise and treating early experts as a vocabulary which cannot be entered into without wearily cataloged diligence, but my point isn't about the electronic social cut; it's about belonging. I still want to fit in somewhere. The Jewish museum-- well, what did I expect, especially if I can't contact my Jewish cousins for cover?

I was banned by Poets & Writers, and allowed The Literature Network to repeat the process, I can never reconcile with disability activists in Philadelphia, and after oh, 15 years of posts with literary instructors on a group list, I get bitch slapped every time I assert myself. And my family? Well-- you know what that's like. I'm very depressed-- no, wrong sensibility.

Inchoate flailing. It occurred to me that the poster who once had the idea of Ulysses being a Cubist novel may have thought my response was an insult. Said response was more like a yelp, given my hostility to an exercise Joyce himself described as a "damned long novel."

Now you understand why purists kill intellectuals when they have a coup and bear responsibility for genocidal routs.

Red Hair and Posture Prat

What is now the “Lucille Ball Comedy Festival” began in 1991 as “Lucy Fest” – an annual celebration of Lucille Ball as well as an opportunity to feature up and coming comedians.

On my invitation note to Ms Kline, I wrote "I'm still a bitch." Seemed to work. I shall not seek her advice on either vaginal discomfort or moving to California. My desire is not to switch from old east to the nearly semi-autonomous west so much as to go inland or set eyes on Tuscany, with some degree of peace on my native soil.

She is a kindly soul, my old roommate, forgiving of her own foibles, even if they aren't akin to making a career out of ungainliness.

Vecchio's Bended Knee

What child is this, who, laid to rest,
On Mary's lap lay sleeping?
Whom angels greet with anthems sweet,
While shepherds watch are keeping?-- the classic carol

Jack Dorsey is the boy man who lucked out and got the coolest bubble gum machine we fantasized about as children, but the standard terms of service bulletin does not abrogate moral responsibility, nor does it resolve the issue of what to do with fanaticism in the context of social networks. I know something about hate, real vitriolic hate of the type which led Poets & Writers to suspend me before bitterness and betrayed trust extended to hating my former homosexual associates, one of whom was a real friend, if not the best one for me, before my tolerance ruptured into corrosion, before I really got hurt, physically and mentally, and experienced black racism which liberals hastily deny exists, but I know enough to know we are not going to kill ourselves back to the age of Exodus, and I have restrained myself from my worst caustic excesses, for selfish reasons as well. I care about my legacy. Members of al-Shabab need to realize they are already corrupted, if they are using twitter to heighten the profile of this fantasy Caliphate they believe they can impose on Northern Africa.

I weep for our dead, but also for the fact that I am the oracle of a history very few are willing to respect. I lived the Kent State massacre, lived it, and like the rest of the country, was horrified that a state national guard could kill university students simply for protesting our military aggression bent on dousing Asian nationalism. I've read that Google hates being the arbiter of first amendment rights; I get it. Dorsey imitates the model, a convenient preclusion of conscience. Tears can now resume streaking my face.

Seasons In The Sun

We had joy we had fun-- Terry Jacks

Misconstrued email is the source of so much folly. This is the one thing I have not really examined with you, and it significantly shortened my life span. My neighbor hits a send all button to help a marginalized figure, who has his own footprint. I very briefly skimmed his post about taking himself off Social Security, and while I am no fan of entitlement strangulation, the consequences of indigence in a city like Philly is not the adventure of a graphic novel, but Mr. Tollen is presumably an ambulatory fellow.

I am not mad at Ed. *He just did not pause to think that a disenfranchised wheelchair user and a disenfranchised mental health consumer would not be able to accommodate each other when he (Ed) told me to contact Zach directly. That direct contact disappointed me and made me feel excluded. Zach gives small private talks about Joseph Campbell and Carl Jung, important but superseded figures. A small episode come and gone. I dealt with people like Zach every day under my salaried grant project, and Ed may follow my blog and skim my posts; he probably does the same for Zachary Tollen, but this does not mean we're getting through to each other, and I find that discouraging. 

The same confusion created a cyber EEOC case between Linda C Dezenski and myself, and the corrosive poison of my anger resides in the cost. Linda was embarrassed, faced demotion, and I was traumatized to the brink of institutional incarceration, and a crippling guaranteed federal debt which is driving me into myocardial infarction or an early stroke. Even if my political representatives investigate, no one is going to restrict Linda's economic viability for prior bad acts, and that due to tokenism. She is a prescriptive and compliant public figure who humiliated me and countless others, but the people that run this state know a radioactive problem when they see it.

Move on? It would be nice, but my health is failing, and I can't leave a landlord also guilty of recurring criminal negligence. Consider yourself lucky.

*As I indicated yesterday, however, the implication of bringing Zach and myself into each other's sphere of influence is for me only an additional source of shame and annoyance. I am trying to climb back up, not give into Mr. Tollen's functional limitations. A thanks but no thank you situation.

Red Ball-- Minority Report

I have some nerve; even my detractors have to give me that, as I sit here almost every day with a decanter of unrequited love, and there she is, one of the very few woman authors who has been able to elicit the cooing pleasure of the Gerber baby out of my blunted emotional cynicism. From a fantastical daydream of a literary BFFL like her to a 30 second cryptic tweet as if we were equals, and yes, if Jayne Anne follows me I shall squeal, diffidence about mutual achievements aside; next to hers mine are minute. Despite my length of time online, it is still disconcerting. I frame my past of longing for a nostalgic farewell, slightly frustrated at lack of email access, since I still enjoy the art of the epistle, and she has a concurrent virtual footprint while I am fomenting the arc of lesser and greater influences. Do boomers ever get used to this pancake collapse of psychic space?

In the hierarchy of recognitions, if it was between Mia Farrow reaching out past her celebrity, or Jayne Anne Phillips willingness to indicate she remembers the issue of which I posted, the latter means more to my aging decline. This is unreal; totally unreal. Chill break.

Brown Nose

John has a good memory-- Erik von Schmetterling, before he lost his

After I was banned from this online community portal, circa 2002, I spiraled downward in Yahoo Groups, and unsubcribed from the atheist community after a time. Posting like a blackguard wasn't exactly home cooked meatloaf with mash potatoes. I have not crossed any boundaries with this non-fiction community, one of the few very active on which I remain, because I cannot keep up with their reading pace, and do not post often, and this is how I have marked my existence rolling from my bed to this desk for 15 years, give or take: who bans my account, who doesn't, which communities I leave voluntarily.

My health is beginning to fail-- not the best case scenario for sticking my anguish inside of how Joyce utilized his lack of balance crammed into one evening, unintended double entendre as this is. Joyce crams deconstructions, and I crammed over three hundred pages, now find myself disoriented, trying to relocate my gravitational center and mitigate my need to freak fuck myself into a stroke. I read all night at the desk, dressed at nine and drove my blocks in somewhat somnolent states of being  Rather dramatic way to rediscover my analytic decline, that I am not a student anymore; the goal is close, I am nearly finished with Ulysses, the sordid reflection of Leopold's Dublin like the crack in my psyche: if I stay with this landlord through this summer I am as good as dead, and if I give my notice this is tantamount to no more than executing the sentence.

The people with cerebral palsy with whom I live basically horrify me and I have little to say to those like the Gladhandler, or Sherry, with her happy retardation, and the ablests? They will listen, give or take, to my brutalized indignation, but how viable I remain among them is an unspoken question, how realistic it is for me to remain defiant.

The guy with the glasses who lets me in to the group, almost over now, is still good looking to my unloved trollop within.

It's been a wonderful life.

Jim Croce, Canonized

I work so hard on some of these posts, and then I scroll the account every so often and wonder if I should not simply delete, accept that some form of anxiety and early dementia is taking over. Alzheimer's is not yet an affliction, but short term memory blocks started to plague me when Frank and I were current. Growing in concern. Louise is the only online contact who gave me any worthwhile feedback, and Steve Tara interacted and helped me along when I was active on LiveJournal. Why Daniel Schneider invited me to his community is lost on me, and my Russian viewers are a criminal cyber nuisance merely looking for an opportunity to antagonize me with more of the same.

Once I found out Louise was disabled, her backhanded compliment of my published essay diminished, but Steve Tara's interaction was pleasurable, the difference between being being a good lieutenant under an obligation, and a chance meeting of the minds.

I'd enjoy having fun in digs somewhere in Sydney with Steve, but I never wanted to engage Louise once I knew what she had, and understood her lack of sustaining socialization, because the work I did for the supervisor who traumatized me was mentoring. I have had enough of not being able to make my own choices on who I choose to empower. Louise said that if she friended me "you will not talk about me," essentially asking me to honor accepted social manner; what she confided to me is not interesting, but I am willing to violate her trust, or, in a more conscientious fashion, know my own capacity for it. In the usual manner of binary oppositions, I appreciate her outreach, her attempted assistance on a source, and offer her this advice if she is "out there" lurking: Do not invest in safety valves like I did. Find a partner, be wise about your finances, learn how to assert yourself, and stay away from damaged women like me. I am bad news Louise, for a sheltered younger lady like yourself, and do not want people like you looking up to me, and I'll never mention it again unless for reasons unknown it comes up.

This is why I made the interaction cease: the potential to cause her pain, passing it down the food chain. The disabled community itself taught me how to be that vicious, let alone the fabulous homosexuals who familiarized my past, and if I queried those who view this account if you are getting any sense of my strategy, what I am trying to do, or even where I am too obtuse, if you haven't commented in 300 posts to brave the demonic extremism of a damned mind, you aren't about to start now.

A Note to Twitter

I discovered this morning that Amazon has a kindle blog publishing app, and this may temporarily circumvent my problems with my failed AdSense investment. I am not going to hyperlink to AdSense because Google directs me to my account. Ignorance is also disabling, as I do not know if Google Blogger cares about my reactionary disobedience, meaning I do not know if I am still an approved client, if Google's break with my first provider had anything to do with the content of those using LiveJournal who were in pain, or if I cannot restore my banners simply because I do not know how to reintegrate my AdSense account with my Google accounts. People would have legitimate reason to see Blogger close me down: I name names, and in today's world, that behavior is not considered free speech, though I am not the first writer who does it, (Joyce, Roth) and I will not be the last, and I have more to come! (Oh no, Harvard and the legal community brace themselves, egads!)

Tackling and restoring my ads is a longer term issue, but tonight I am going to enter the Dark Side of KDP, and we'll see if I come out on the other end, intact. I am open to suggestions as to how much you are willing to pay for me. Kevin Drum is more valuable than I because he can handle economic data. At best, I have only made preliminary incursions, in two years, in that direction, but I will get better at this as long as I remain stable. Am I worth more than a penny?

Chime in if you like, seriously, whether you are disabled or an ambulatory follower. I am as much concerned that I will undersell myself as I am that I over rate the usefulness of my efforts.

Parrot's Game

The elder of my patriarchal cousins who was going to take a look at my Ad Sense support dialogue, the one who told me Drexel's computer center was not a viable option this time around for my problems, he fell through a hole in the floor of a friend of his son's at a graduation party, and I am not sure how much I want to pay Geek Squad to advise and or come fix me up. Now that I could use that lavish Black Tie protection, I no longer have it, and I am not all that keen on taking Septa to Best Buy for a nearly four year old HP, or my newer but cheaper Toshiba that I have used but once, and my cousin said what I told you, "Why are you worried about Ad Sense given what you earned back?" But I invested in it as a motivating force. This is trivial given my cousin's accident. In conjunction with my last post, however, I am no longer a huge fan of peer support counseling where the trained peer repeats the concerns of the disabled individual back to them. Erik's mind may now have significantly limited capacity, but he remembers how to do this. "We all have highs and lows," he said, when I was talking to Monica, despite mutual antipathy, about my brother's slam dunk homeopathic diagnosis. I was actually more liberal once, and like the ACLU, dove in to the LGBT acceptance modality as readily as what you see on Breaking Pointe, which, despite art therapy, the disabled cannot enter into, but not anymore. My life has swirled too much around the undercurrents of the human freak show, and if I could get away with open hostility to Riverside's lady male, I would tell him to go scuttle into hospice and save the taxpayers of Pennsylvania some money, and yes, my antagonism toward Erik & partner is potentially crueler than this, but that is due to my utter and absolute disdain for "the Adapt action". If ADAPT demonstrations were wiped out I would applaud, because they are absolutely ineffective and do nothing to solve the problems with the single payer options in national insurance programs like Medicare or VA benefits, regardless of how empowered they make paraplegics and quads feel.