Delayed Quest for Hot Spot, ctd

"What was he getting at?"-- Stendhal, in the mind of his astute peasant courtier

There are limits to how far Kantian concerns can bind the sinews of our differences, just as allowing myself to be antagonized by digital burlesque trolls is an exercise in futility, no matter what their breast and stocking entrapment to visit their web cam footage might conceal. Objectified, ostracized, sometimes feared from a very early age, only desired by white addicts sniffing on the trail of my mother's phonons, for a fat woman she wreaked of slut, and it never left her at a loss for shit at our door after the fabled divorce, so deeply gouged in this family's psyche. One may have a bad body image bordering on dysmorphia, but to have red light women fling it in your face that they are so much more desirable is a vicious cruelty, whether intended or not, and then, on top of that to have a fuck-witted socialist from California be so impolitic as to tell me I'm ugly, this is a brush burn on the grain. His daughter is too a spaz, and why not, as the most common birth defect? Even after all these years, of wounded naiveté taught so many lessons, I let my guard down for parents with crippled children, purportedly comparing. My Roman father's blunt cruelty is oddly preferable. I'm fully aware, however, even with Demi Moore's resources, or her former resources, which I'll never have, I'm a homily peasant, with a madam's airs, and plastic surgery would have Phyllis Diller results without the moxie. I also feel at least a slight commiseration for the daughter of such a jackass. Wouldn't it be nice to have an auto hypoxia button for parents, bagging them for alien lizards nesting ships?

Diapers in the Closet Deja Vu

"I feel like a visitor to this marriage!"-- Morris Chestnut, bad bluejeans shuffle

I remember the user handle Cambaird from years ago, in a more turbulent space of grievance, which must mean I was a member of Yabberz years ago; I do not believe I was banned, as sometimes I am the one who surfed off from sites in a huff, annoyed by the disruption of trolls who couldn't see that my suffering was of the utmost importance. The differential, between then and now, isn't a cure so much as it is biological erosion mitigates intensity. Linda Dezenski is two years my senior, now chastened under a grant for railroad victims within very specific parameters (though I do not believe she has physically departed from Liberty, as they claim, when I telephone to warn them my battle is coming), and she hit these symptoms of our unraveling before me. Plaque psoriasis is a loss of adhesion, and it resided on her right elbow 15 years ago just as it is now perennial and perhaps a permanent problem on mine. She has the resources yet, on the backs of all those rib cages pierced at the point of her sword, to chase after cosmetic solutions, appeasing vanity's struggle with the clock, while I pour pitchers of water over dander, rolling around in scissor tackled knits, investigating which hot spots I'm going to attempt to huddle in, giving retail outlets money I can ill afford while attempting software downloads over trade-ins, a street roller once removed but for a sheer act of will. An eatery on Commerce Square is closer than Joe's Coffee, while determination vacillates between staying closer to residence, the latter retains more possibilities for a commercial pitch, in that space where entrails haven't evacuated my body cavity.

The mobility medical scene in Unbreakable has a sinister suspense. We stay glued to Jackson, in a suspended animation, in his give and take with Robin Wright, the wife of Bruce Willis, superhero of circumstance. In Not Easily Broken, (2009) the white physical therapist is a contrivance, left to hang like a chad on a Florida voting ballot, in an outrageously maudlin narrative, which conveys, nevertheless, certain truisms about the vindictiveness of black matriarchal dominance. No one should have to mark their closure on their prime of life via hazy recall over computer monitors built like television sets with vacuum tubes, watching a second rate actor who seems custom made to play a lizard in a disguise of the human epidermis.

Weekend on the Hill, an address to Fareed Zakaria

Mr. Zakaria, I offer my regrets that your children were harassed over the telephone after your column about self-destructive whites who support Trump was spoofed. Aside from the fact that I've traipsed on the hem of the fourth estate long enough to know that energy flags even with a deadline approaching, and aside from the fact that I've had more articles fall apart than I've had published, you wrote a bad column about a statistical analysis of white suicides for those in my age group, suggesting in your last line that people like me take a reality check, and that "Trump can't fix it, no one can." Exactly what kind of observation is that, even with the acknowledgement that Wapo needs to resolve its revenue generation issues just like the rest of us?

That Donald Trump is where he is at the moment in the run for the White House is a testament to more than a few failures of the previous and current administrations. Afghanistan hasn't been a viable nation state for more than 30 years. Bush and cabal didn't resolve that issue, destroyed Iraq as a buffer zone, and Obama subsequently offers seven years of apologias. Usually, national policy has little effect on my stagnant paralysis as a disabled woman, but the ACA is apparently deciding what kind of healthcare I need for itself without my participation, a cripple who's tragedy amounts to the realization that liberal academics who believed her intelligence would be her economic security were wrong. My career in Philadelphia, brief as it was under vocational interference and afterwards, was basically segregated within the public welfare system. Now it is worse than it was in my twenties, for reasons which have run the gamut through this account purportedly about disability in entertainment, which for the most part it is. The social media mockery to which you were subjected probably has its roots in the fact that your ability to brand your writing is too diaphanous, and yet, like many of your colleagues, you're unionized, salaried, to dish up milkweed as some sort of castigation, then the fact that you were trolled becomes its own establishment media item. That is the nature of the business; readers, however, even if they aren't over-educated with the debt to show for it, know when they're having their chain yanked; if they reacted before thinking it through the behavior was inappropriate, but the sensationalism whose maw you feed rather ineptly at times, puts the blame partly at your door.

I'm going to be blunt: I look like shit, and the last time I had a decent repast twice in the same day is beginning to fade from my memory, and I haven't taken the risk to use my aging bath chair since the building manager telephoned Health and Human Services agents to humiliate me last April, so my personal hygiene is under challenge, and if I am more than likely going to go the same way most section 202 housing residents go I've resolved to take my own life, and I am having a harder time than usual this month. I wanted to, determined to, keep my Amazon Prime membership. Why? Burnished comfort of vanity beyond my means? In a few hours I shall with embarrassment drive to Trader Joe's for a loaf of bread on my laundry money, good as my word when it comes to my visceral hatred of entitlements for what I'm subjecting myself to. I wouldn't have the slightest compunction about becoming a domestic militant, if I could, against housing authorities who've treated me like chunnel since I was a graduate student, and intake systems whose use of assurances rapidly germinate their own criminal liability, but even radical libertarian ranchers occupying federal lands in Oregon relegate morbidly angry quadriplegics to entities like Bellevue, particularly if they're now too old to ride stallions on their own as a good method of leg stretching. Most woman of my age probably swooned over Daniel J. Travanti in his heyday, with his cultured moderated pragmatism. I know I did, fantasized over the man as the perfect televised version of my father whom I'd never marry. Progressive multiculturalism destroyed even the humane standard of decency he represented. If you were as astute an analyst as you should be, allegations of fraudulence wouldn't continue to hound you as they do.

Viewers Exhaust

I did say Alain Delon was clever, if not a transcendent minimalist, did I not? Let me walk back an earlier assertion I wrote about not wanting disabled friends. This was not meant to convey I am enjoying social isolation mummified in plastic wrap, and buffs could offer me data I evidently lack from time to time. I need to view Le Samourai now, as I am formulating an article about the American adaption.

Perhaps some of my readers hesitate to offer suggestions, but I am not out to troll everyone and strip them naked on a constant basis people, sheesh not that my vitriol falls into this category. I barely understand why the trolling occurred.

If the Britons, however, have one form of dialectic with the country they founded, the French have another dialectic, somewhat based on intrigue, more elusive, quite flavored syntax, increasingly commercialized with its contemporary knock off models, like Spiral, and The Detectives.