Follow The Yellow Brick Road

 

I would like very much to discuss, as opposed to writing a real article about, Justin Marks, Counterpart, and JK Simmons, and if my carbon monoxide scarred lungs aren’t going to collapse, I shall do that. I do not care what side of the political spectrum Marks and I are on, and I even, almost, remain unconcerned about his sexual orientation. What I do care about, after all these years, is not realizing what Simmons could do, after all these years as Olivet’s laconic other bookend, and The Closer. Even Oz could not quite prepare me for Howard Silk. When my usage of Prime was fresher three years ago, I streamed enough of Oz to be inundated, and so I smirk, having beat HBO reboxing everything. Given how poor I am, I am sorer than you want to know over licensing rights, because I was just getting to know Tony Soprano, and then the deck gets reshuffled, but, if I ever need to take you with me to the prison drama, I made myself exceedingly familiar with in. By contemporary standards, the series is blaise, and I can’t say what ground HBO actually broke with it because as a prison series Oz is a very long and spooling Dick Wolf harvester, quite unintentionally. When it was original, I was naïve, and now I am just very sick and have to cease texting the cousin by marriage who is also very sick. All my socialist building manager achieved, after twelve years of warfare and threatening me, repeatedly, was to make my care more dangerous for everyone involved in it, and I would like to inform you, and Alphabet’s administrators, that my expressed malevolence toward this woman is poor form, but I am the one sitting here with fecal pus in my crotch every night, so how is it, that she triggered the dominoes to force me into this situation, that I am living healthier? Silicon Valley companies have downgraded me into a nice cubbyhole for bad mannered circus animals. It doesn’t change the fact that blacks systematically tortured me, and my family wouldn’t unite against it, help me, and nor does anyone else. It is a really lousy way to be drawing on last curtain calls.

Round Pegs in the Square

This Hewlett Packard is very old. I am having enough difficulties with it and Windows Ten cannot be installed. As of today, Microsoft stops supporting Windows 7, and it will be a little longer until I can afford a new device. I already know how ludicrous it is to believe engaging in homicidal impulses toward a section 202 building manager with a rote series of trained gestures is. Philadelphia has hundreds of these matriarchal browbeaters, and if I engage in any form of illegal aggression toward her, I only prove her point. The best weapon in her arsenal was my family's provincialism, and I have pretty well suffered enough, but even the police, who don't like 202 tenants, said Trudy Richardson's harassment toward me bordered concentration camp excursiveness. The company could have simply evicted me, and the black paraplegic above me, David, has far stronger foul odors on the 6th floor. I doubt he was assaulted by Protective Services and more, as was I.
So I fight, and maybe I get rid of a house nigger with owlish glasses from New Jersey with her alleged lupus. Maybe Corey Booker gets involved and says I cannot behave like a monster because Presbyterian Homes really hates the disabled. The beat goes on. The boss Trudy is afraid of, as in The Grifters Angela Houston terror, is a Director named Dulles. Bald, fat, black, corrupt as a horse's ass, I politely told him he was full of shit, and it was indicated to me that this cowed Trudy to the same degree that her tactics have me fighting for my life. If I do engage in illegal behavior toward this woman, and go to court, I doubt the judge will allow me to move for jury nullification

Next In Line

Um. Details please.

— Soledad O'Brien (@soledadobrien) June 26, 2019

There is an incurious internecine battle going on this late but cooler Sunday, as if the Me Too movement decibel decided to metamorphize its attention to patriarchal complacency masquerading as competency. Soledad O’Brien and other women in the fourth estate have launched some scathing criticism of Bret Stephens. According to these strident feminine voices, Stephens is the worst columnist printing at the flagship New York Times. All I can do is sit back and wish for a bag of herbal popcorn, as all I can tell you is I know Soledad’s name. She and I had a brief thread about titles which may have puzzled both she and I. Perhaps she wanted to know how I got an opinion piece about Jennifer Wilbanks into the Philadelphia Inquirer and made it my own. It was the convenience of timeliness, something I now lack due to a black woman named Trudy Richardson who has used her power to abuse me so thoroughly that my fantasies of motion involving her homicide where I fracture her skull into a mortal trauma isn’t too well held in check by the fact that it is what she wants so that she can dispose of me. I may hate what my former supervisor Linda did to me to get me to this point, and I hate those who protected her criminal malfeasance, but my life has endured incontrovertible set backs due to two black women in public housing, and it galls me beyond measure that all my academic promise has transmuted. I am a rabid animal who wants to destroy the domestic matron class forcing me to suffer almost beyond my capacity to endure it, and the hen house is now acluck over Stephens and his statistical inaccuracies, his designation of a new class, the Obama-Trump voter. What can I say? I am one of them. Obama and Mitt Romney and Pelosi made my life a living hell with Romney’s healthcare plan for Massachusetts, and Trump running around goring the establishment has only accentuated the city of Philadelphia’s time honored provincialism. I never had an easy time of it with NYT. Shortly before I managed online access, they threatened me with a collection agency over a three dollar deficit. Once online, they suspended my book forum account for momentary frustration with another poster, which was nothing, teeny funnel, but from what I can glean from Google, the media brand that the New York Times is has been challenged of late by other feature writers. I myself don’t believe Douthat and David French are worth what they’re paid: I demand more of Douthat’s mindset, and French is simply a cowering liberal who pities the police when they use deadly force against aggressors like me.

Antenna

"You think I'm having fun?"-- Cate Blanchett

My aunt called me Tuesday afternoon from the hospital where she took my father's brother because she is angry at my father because I inadvertently revealed something my sister told me which my father wanted kept quiet. My care giver is a momma's boy, Marie wants to be paid attention to, and now I have to be the rock of Gibraltar despite the fact I believe my father's brother should cease medical treatment and be given palliative care, and I'd gladly stick Galahad on a pike and inform JEVS that I make Bill Cosby's bigot from 1969 look like Caesar, and made all of my second pitch since this catastrophe and incapacitation began, killing my building manager in a quantum of neuron estuaries, an arrow through the neck, impairing her vocal chords, her blood gurgling up through her tongue, high hate for a rather characterless chocolate woman allegedly afflicted with lupus. She looks like an afflicted from lupus, with her owl's black rimmed glasses, fearing me like the devil's spawn. Erik, the transsexual, is afflicted with symptoms similar to lupus, and I missed all the fun when he lit his face on fire in the last days of winter 2019 with a tobacco cigarette. I had nothing to do with it, but you can feel free to envision the relish of enmity.
I never set out to be an ambitious journalist writing for The National Review like David French, here exposing the fissures between libertarians and traditional conservatives that the once living Charles Krauthammer expounded on with a rhetorical shrug
 

A fragile nation suffers from deep partisan polarization, mistrust of institutions, and a media in crisis . . . And you throw that garbage hot take into the stew? Have you no decency, sir? At long last, have you no decency?

— David French (@DavidAFrench) March 25, 2019

I just turned to the profession to make a living. I know NRO doesn't accept freelance queries. I know they have internships. All I'd like to know is how do I send them a fucking resume? I did ask them, without the gerund as adjective.

The Occupation of Venezuela

"Guaido has grown so much politically they haven't been able to touch him," the assertions English language media  asserts about stature

Things are moving too slowly for any hope on my part that mobility medicine can mitigate what I have had to endure since September of 17. The direct care worker, whose pseudonym he probably cannot reference as the knight from the Arthurian legends, gave me most of the day off, but for all that, making an effort to cut down on Twitter interaction, discipline is compromised through indigestion due to my bowel and inability to evacuate, as by the time he gets here I am empty and when he’s ready to clock out, it is too late, is only just getting in 3 o’clock Monday, his automotive issues taking a toll on the month. I have not moved the goal post further along toward developing new editorial relationships, though I have started a back burner story about the homosexual drug addict Jevs sent me as a back up when Galahad takes time off. Obamacare, no matter its exchanges and networks, doesn’t change the nature of an hourly wage on Medicaid budgets, and you’ll get drug addicts with criminal records who can get aging tenants evicted for being extreme homosexuals with criminal records. Eviction from a public housing building such as Riverside might leave me overjoyed if it was the result of my own actions, but if it came about as the result of an extreme queer (even Galahad recoils from this man, and Galahad is an inner city minority resident),  this is something else again, and would give me ample cause of action to sue Trudy Richardson, the building manager who no more believes in civil liberties than she would that the legends of St. Nicholas has legs, but be heartened. Apathy has triumphed over my visions of treating Trudy like one of Daryl’s head shots from the Walking Dead, which relates directly to the fact that Galahad resents the fact I’m not grateful for him. Why should I be? He isn’t indispensable, and I cannot push him to help me regain strength. His time off, though earned, is primarily arbitrary. Jevs doesn’t have standards in place to be mindful about giving these individuals required down time such as I’d receive. He is frustrated with this lack of gratitude. These flare ups take their toll, the vituperations in a sphincter which exudes a furnaced laxity so domineering that a younger undergraduate took the Shakespearean’s request to write a poem about her name literately and wrote an anagram about her identity being flushed into the sewage system. “It’s it’s—” stuttered the then voluble Jerry McGuire, with his ham fisted strength yet young, at the time, less good looking, than the now imploded Luke Perry. Magee Rehabilitation, its first keystone inscribed the same year as Jerry’s “it’s it’s,” stumble cadence at a conference table on a Chester campus, is more representative of a healthcare system in crisis as opposed to something worthy of marvel. I’m not post-op; not in recovery. The physical therapists express resistance toward my treatment, the only innovation since my last visit being wall diagrams about surviving a mass shooting, oblong ellipticals in deep red blue color contrasts, with arrows. Perhaps soiled adult briefs would be a distraction in the face of such an event, burrowing the exuberant celebration of youth, a youth which truly believed in victorious conquest. As one of my literate British followers noted, when you have nothing left to lose, you have nothing left to fear.

tutto in famiglia

Shut the hell up you bitch ass nigga. You will continue to run this country further into the ground and risk lives every time you breathe. You’re not the president. Just a dumpster full of hate. FOH. Sick to my stomach that literal shit currently represents America to the world. https://t.co/qoNWllmZIm

— Jussie Smollett (@JussieSmollett) January 12, 2018

I have not had much to post about my mother's sister Mary in her ebullient mark upon her league of students in the face of her deceased sister's emotive turbulence. This is due to fear of consequence. Her husband, also obese to the point that its malevolence on his family is grotesque, is a Methodist prig, and in other circumstances her might have been to PA's Delaware County what Chris Noth's Peter Florrick is to Cook County in Illinois. If he had not married into Mary's Catholic family, he might have been a local big wig, and the paper's treated him him as such when he was "Chief of D's," to use the Dick Wolf colloquium from SVU in an overt strategism to draw the audience in. 

Unlike yours truly, Mary is a true bovine conservative, and when she gets a few simple ideas in her head she masticates them to the finish line, and if niggers like Trudy Richardson have terrorized me for nearly ten years of her managerial authority, than what better advocacy can the Worrilow family offer me but to move into Fair Acres with my grandmother's living cadaver in Lima? I'd be given a room with another patient where I could "come and go". The wonders of the empty hollow that is the Americans with Disabilities Act from a woman twice my size, twice as thick, replacing herself with titanium bones. I have broken with my aunt, permanently, which points to the anathema, the irony, that poets and writers suspended my account from the Speakeasy for detailing the issues of chronic condition which Gretchen posts about daily on Facebook, but I hate the latter, regret the former. Mary nearly died earlier in 2018, due to pulmonary embolism, and yet everyone is slavering to do me more harm. Trudy's been at it longer, and I am determined she'll pay a price for that. Lumping me in with dementia patients prone to violence is not a conducive environment, nor as safe as my sister might otherwise believe. I may not be able to assist true conservatives in excising LLhan Omar as a fatal virus on our body politic, but Presbyterian Homes is going to feel my bite. Corruption before the face of God might as well open the doors to Armageddon.

Pulmonary Obstruction Cycles

"I've had my setbacks too."-- a  technician the dowager will likely never commission again who freely divulged his skepticism with HomeAdvisor.

I wish to clarify what I wrote in Green Room about fundamental inequality. No one is to blame for the hardship imposed by spastic quadriplegia. What is worthy of censure is the religious outcry for our lives which thereafter essentially leaves us on our own beyond a certain point. Google doesn't have to allow me continued use of its AdSense services, for instance, and I created my own difficulty there through the abandon of my LiveJournal account, but I still have an inactive AdSense account with 3 dollars and 45 cents I rightfully earned, even if I am rhetorically otherwise unacceptable. I have no idea if Google still actively supports this pay for play option, but its disability services unit should be able to assist me in transferring that amount over to Shareaholic, or another provider. I cannot be like Leopold Bloom and know everything about software coding. Everyone has limits, intellectually and within pedagogue applications, and thanks to the folly of poorly deployed nepotism, I will be chained to the Commonwealth's dispensed with, and revised notions, of Medicaid Waiver services for the foreseeable future. Everything I've written about it still remains true, even with this paraprofessional and I settled into a begrudging routine, my overwrought awakening stymied. I asked him to tone it down, his attempt to badger me into happiness, and he likes another inner city single mother of two who had a miserable holiday. I cannot live life on a fraudulent buoy which only looks sturdy but is otherwise a filament, and it is entirely permissible for Ross Douthat and the Kathleen Parker's of this world to be equanimous patricians. My outcry isn't over inevitable biological decline. My outcry is over the near continuous disaster brought about by the failure of durable goods, ignorance of the black public housing wardens I have to contend with, like Gail Sims. She is clueless in relation to how stringent state or Commonwealth compliance requirements are, and it is in fact her job to at least have an awareness of the rules. I got paid $25k in the 90s to advocate for my clients out of these insane labyrinths, and now I have to arm wrestle nigger hicks out of the boon docks *shielded*, in the absolutely persuasive contention of Richard Dawkins, by the Presbyterian applied doxology of predestination.
Will I delete this post for a living commission or living wage contract? Certainly. Is it invalid? No. The obstacles I have to continuously surmount are inhumane, and I'm not living in Kabul. Libertarians shouldn't be fearful of examining market weaknesses, but by the same token, progressives need to realize that federated partnerships with nominal Christian denominations funded by established religions needs to come to an end. Presbyterian Homes gets away with murder. I have the right to self-defense, especially as, every time I am nearly ready to launch a genre collection, my survival is mysteriously, rather suddenly, at stake.

Voyeurs to Spastic Climax

"I've been in worse places than your apartment."--the proprietor

It is not that I cannot work, I am recalcitrant about starting something new when I was in the middle of other things, but I suppose I can marshal my forces, weakened as they are, evaluate whether or not I need to interview Woods, and then form my questions. One thing I am not interested in, and this goes for O’Neal as well, whose publicist chose not to respond to my inquiry, though I intend to persist, is prurient “gotcha” profiles. O’Neal was too candid with Tavis Smiley in 2012. The interview was memorable, by media standards a successful expose, one in which Ryan may not have meant to reveal he was a bit bitchy, but it didn’t serve his legacy, and I prefer to learn more about craft, sans Al Pacino, who has taught his fans, fantasy fuck melt girl here included, about the art. If I do approach James, this is what I want, not his sex life, or his scorecard political bites. I want the work, some intangible insight into his magnetism, and if I’ve fallen in love just a little, from a distance, I can afford it. It may even smooth out my ability to finesse over and above letting the world know I’m owed for my own continuously browbeat ability: Dana got me on the toilet, and I am weak, but not quite that weak, and perhaps should sue Mike. The code, in disability culture, is wheelchair mechanics are supposed to get it, and I feel betrayed, because Mike’s sensibility is I’m supposed to know how to build my own chair. That is his job, even if his wife is sick, I don’t know how it assuages his personal life to drag me down the drain with him. What I do may not matter if what I do is too late, and he places demands on me I can’t meet, Trudy Richardson wants what’s best for me? How is pressure sores on a bad machine good for me, not even able to go to the bathroom without a thirty year old woman pole vaulting my body because I can’t help her on a scooter device which impedes me? And the answer to this is to have a rookie cop haul me off for psychiatric care? Penn Medicine bounced me back to Riverside in record speed, the police having washed their hands, and Trudy says “well you don’t have to be so aggressive.”

Yes I do. I would not have survived independent living collusion if I hadn’t been so aggressive, if I had not made an effort to put dirty laundry front and center, and then there’s Mike, like a damn body slam, toss the product and then reel the hook, so long, and good luck, an old man with a sick wife burying me along side him, this is why I believe violence needs to create upheaval. Trauma teaches the complacent a lesson.

Not Paddock’s way, no. McVeigh was closer, and he and Nichols posed a threat to the state. This is what disability activism needs, a leader smart enough to threaten the compliance models represented by the Richardson’s and the Nancy Lotz’s of the world. But whether it is cousins, or private hires, or state aides, housekeeping takes precedence over what small contentment I held to. “The apartment looks cleaner,” a false positive, signifying nothing, other than I am right, and have been right all along. I need to be sacrificed for the sake of sanitation, and if that’s the case, why not let me go to sleep? Because the Pope says all life is precious, to the last. If we really believe that, Presbyterian Homes and Liberty Resources would have admitted negligence long ago, but we deny, then reveal too much, and burrow, the damn human race. I claim the right to pave the way for a new age militancy, as good as my word, researching Krugman on trade, a militant that will follow in my wake, since I am not diabolical nor quite ruthless enough, not gouging out the eyes of my CO, like Alvarez, in his senseless, senseless cage. Tom Brady critically injured on the field? That would be a start. A call to arms!

Lazarus’ Preclampsia Gorilla Channel Mitigation

His hands, palms upward at his sides, were covered in blood.-- JG Ballard, Crash, p3

I have to walk myself back, and admit to a correction: There are whites, at least those who work for Liberty Health, who are as moronic as Presbyterian Homes minority managerial staff like Debra Horne and Trudy Richardson, even if it befuddles me why the coffee light guard downstairs is fixated on my father’s rushed appearance during this too lengthy interregnum which will result in my spirit being crushed. I do not know what Liberty Health is, but their employees harassed me just as I was harassed in 14 by an earlier pair. The 2017 round was an older man named Tom, and one younger patronizing punk. I asked the younger if he knew any famous people with cerebral palsy. “No,” was my answer, and I should have kicked his ass, even from my filthy mattress. I did frighten them both, in October, as only women can, and they both jumped to help me eat when I hissed with scorn at “fucking regulations!” The kid was a kid, but this Tom is as much an ignorant racist as I admit to being, the forthright savant. I gave Tom more punishment over telephone, as the idiot’s contractual obligations are to shovel us like shit into nursing homes, but, the key is not my inconsolable misery, and the punishment my body is taking and will not recover from. It is what I asked the punk bastard kid, and how he responded. This signifies the failure of sixty years worth of activism and disability law, and that attitudes do not change. I never expected to literally adopt the mantle of Vassar Miller. Those odds are long, but there are not enough of us who can cross over into the mainstream. I once believed Linda Dezenski could do it, but I suppose I took care of that, not quite able to let it flow, like Dana Delaney and her cannabis dealer in “Hand of God.” The dealer is a lesbian nigger, and tells Diva Harris (Delaney) a back story that concluded, “That was the first time I made out with a woman and had an orgasm.” No big deal. Women smirk about sex just as men do, but the way my former supervisor did what she did triggered my emotional scars, and I did not think such a genteel poem as I sent her would have resulted in such a graphic suggestion. I needed to leave this building then, as I always have, my one constant, willing to be homeless outcry, and the counternarrative, looming so large, is to move in with my 94 year old grandmother.

Am I engaging in liberal outrage? Perhaps James Dorwart thinks so, assuming he has time to scan my occasionally esoteric posts—but what some of you may not understand is I am using big tent egalitarianism to illustrate that big tent egalitarianism is a crock of shit. Other wheelchair users understand better than my ambulatory followers, and I am sure James does too—maybe I’ll throw him a bone about art therapy empowerment, as I am alienated out of the shared experience of identity, ever mindful that he stayed in the ivory tower. I deflated out of it, as opposed to pole vaulted. No one’s fault that case management destroyed me in certain ways; teaching might have done so too, but I think it raises serious moral questions, that I have to be destroyed because I’ve been non-compliant—in that sort of quasi-ecumenical vein, where “Hand of God,” works as an implied Pentecostal parable, Blessid is an implied Catholic cheat sheet, and left me displeased, and even the reviewer undercuts his own enthusiasm for what Heske and Fitz do without any valid clues as to who, or what, Jedediah (Montgomery) is supposed to be. The hostile obsessed ex-lover, Ethan, attempts to murder the supernatural neighbor, and I gathered this alluded to the Crucifixion, but beyond that, the only clue offered was Edward’s mention of the neighbor’s black teeth, and that his knowledge of horticulture had something to do with his lengthy lifespan. Instead of actually redeeming “Sarah,” the story ends with the message that the Resurrection makes life precious, too awkward even for apocrypha. I pleaded for help on this account two months ago, inappropriately, and expected exactly what I received, smirking, but if I am forced beyond any choice—I suspect Sarah had other alternatives—toward involuntary medical commitment, I’d be far less anguished if I had a voluntary executor to safeguard my work, published and all. Please think about it. Despite my obstinacy, and the nuclear fallout of my idealism, I deserve better than senseless maintenance in an institution, and even deserve better than immigrant African care. I may not prevail all that much longer, unless Melania invites me over to watch the president’s wildlife footage.

Elbow Curvatures, Cast Off

You can also be addicted to hate.-- the manufactured paraplegic of Emerald City

Even though the majority frame it this way, and this includes me, and Blogger, in my antipodean merger of aggression and trolling and gleefully rationalized spree killing, mourning that I shall never have the luxury of splitting Richardson’s skull open before disappearing into the dusk: the nigger with her protruding frog eyes and buck teeth conniving, she has beaten me. She contracted my father and his sister into hiring a cleaning service which wiped out my command of my domain. I did give my notice, but it is extreme duress not to have any control of my own space, and in a power chair in which my strength has been wasted. I cannot use this bucket seat for anything else but driving myself around, with emaciated ligaments screaming at me in pain to quit. I’m crying in small episodes, revealing my darker side to this sumo wrestler Muslim I lose in 13 days. She is a stupid fat bitch, hurting and bruising me up, and this is the dues I’ve paid to the Obama Administration. I cannot be ugly with the stupid fat Muslim without generating more crisis. It’s Barry Levinson, it’s Oz, at a pace more malingering and cruel, only slower. My only crime: getting overwhelmed with poor central planning and bad nutrition, living past 55. I might as well be nigger prag (not that I’ve translated the slang for prison rape) not that anyone is fool enough to engage in domestic insurrection for me. The joke is orthopedic medicine and disability activism hasn’t tortured me enough: the ambulatory majority, applying brute force, telling me to adapt, has decimated my strength, and when you’re bowed down in concentric circles, in such a fashion, the deployment of free speech, advocating for men like Craig Brittain only illustrates the fact that aligning myself to the far right hasn’t deregulated me into a safe haven. I messaged Craig once after Twitter allowed him to return. Could he pick me up at the Texas border? Dead serious, I did not persist, and no libertarian has truly befriended me. Suicide, or regimented agony until I careen into the inevitable death spiral, digital connections have left me on my own. Not that it was my right to impose on Mark, across the pond, or even Craig, but I was looking for an individualist willing to at least partially take on the burden I represented, they themselves not realizing, Craig, particularly, that companies are not beholden to the First Amendment. Jack has the perfect right to give Twitter the personality of a smore, and Google can shut me down for my embrace of violence as part of the simian psyche out of which we evolved, though in my case, it is more for an agenda than indiscriminate mayhem. It is now amusing that I was willing to take a ban for a cautious oddball who dumped my account despite my loyalty. What does it matter now? My anus, urethra, every bit of my biology weakened. Nine weeks, a cacophony of bitches telling me this is how it has to be, unless I have the strength for poison, if I haven’t waited too long.  

Carbon Dating

When I contend with Brian Greene and other physicists on Twitter, effeminate mind altering geeks as they are, I must come off as a blockhead. I cannot compete with them in the mathematical empiricism which illustrates the laws of nature as necessarily fixed, so why do it then? Before giving a direct answer, it may surprise viewers to learn I once did amazingly well in algebra and Euclidian geometry, and even got an A on my chemistry final dragging my sister bitch on a leash. My acumen sharpened or fogged primarily due to despair. In my home districts, I thrived. Outside of them my motivation struggled without the proper covalent bonds, but I never quite lost interest in how Einstein and those who made nuclear war possible revolutionized astronomy. I did not realize, or had serious memory lapses against what I was taught, that stars start out as frozen gas that clumps together, takes 10m to ignite or fail, accordingly, and that our solar system won the lottery with long odds, especially since brown dwarfs are popular failures which do not result in fusion, in theory. Space generates its own dynamism over extraordinarily lengthy periods through vibration, end of story. And yet, theoretical physics borders on tacky space opera in places. Matter may ultimately be a hologram. Time may be an illusion. Dark energy. Anti-matter. Four forces, weak and strong, magnetism. Are we absolutely certain we aren’t attempting to decode god? We cannot really say all that much about our self-awareness, let alone why the particles which configure life are so different from those which configure uranium, or why disease and age and so many other things generate agony, against which pleasure is fleeting. We know joy when we feel it too, but most of life processes itself irrespective of human naval gazing, which is why androids and android sex and zombies and singularities worry our collective social dynamics. I do not think the laws of nature recreates humanity in alternate universes as neatly as the equations of impaction lend themselves to in popular science. This is where my “yes but,” comes in, even if I risk being a Neanderthal, like Ron Perlman in Hand of God. Perlman is always reprising himself as a caveman, and his canceled series challenges materialism in exactly the same way I feel the need to challenge what epistemology gains through radio waves and optics. The pilot episode reveals a conspiracy through hallucinogenic delusion which, just possibly, might be divine revelation coming at a necessary price. Amazon canceled it, so we’ll never know, as its second season seems to meander in corporate evil. The actor who plays Keith (Dillahunt?) was certainly made up to look like a warrior from Judges, conquering Canaan. Going against the grain of established critics, there are things I’ve enjoyed viewing here, if only to observe, in context, why the West Coast is as fucked up as upstate New York.

My mother’s sister telephoned, since I have stopped using Facebook. We ignored my abominable attitude, and the prospect of moving into grandmother’s nursing home went in one ear, as the saying goes. Mary really thinks she is doing the right thing, oblivious to the fact that my sentience is still vital. Marie, the other aunt, accused me of whining, thus generating the enthusiasm of her former married relation, and then hung up. I have my moments, but Marie is wearying me with this constant punishment, as both she and my father contributed to this gradated wasting of my strength. A generic ten year old Quantum extended my strength, and when it blew on 10/02, I didn’t assume I’d be dead in 6 months. Unless I can move the absolute zero of Satan’s forbidding glacial majesty, exchange power chairs, relearn how to maneuver myself to restore some semblance of self-determination, it is possible, without exaggeration. The disposable underwear, the loss of my fish, coffee, toilet usage, the toll may now be too much. Trudy Richardson may not have defeated me with her illegal tactics, but as I’ve written, the stocky lupus African achieved quite a lot with her conniving, linear mindset. I have no love lost over these murders. First I thought one thing, and then said it’s a black problem, and decided not to ripple Twitter’s ions. I am not Milo, quite, but if the handwriting is on the wall, things might get more interesting still, in my quest, if not for grace, then? 

Modular Four Legged Application

When I first interviewed with Riverside, after my attack, I turned in down, in 1993, under what must have been the original managers. I returned to Diamond Park. That evening, a cabbie was left for dead a foot or two from my bedroom window, and I am not certain what led me to plead with Terri weeks later, to get me out of what her supervisor extracted her from. I do not like the perpetual motion of litigation any more than anyone else, but at the time, it was a choice between two evils: the hyper dictation of Riverside, which, no more than anything, did not truly protect me from more victimology, or the incessant vandalism to violence spectrum of the accessible Diamond Park units. I did not fully understand 202 housing. I was still traumatized, and it was not my place to purloin Richard Baron or Daniel Raudenbush into my personal advocates. They were directors, not the justice league, and it’s moot, twenty years afterward, as they have little love for the fact that I talked to Pew after my resignation, and, while I am still resolved, assuming the chair doesn’t short out for good, a distinct possibility, on rolling out, I am ambivalent about my unit key—not so much that Trudy cannot lock me out—lupus lady can do as she pleases from her caramelized perspective—but what do I owe the feline? I have no one to take her temporarily.

1.       I never wanted to live at Riverside, and everyone is tone deaf to this, Trudy in particular, Debra, the Health & Human Services civil servants who either glare or bleat at me.

2.       Presby’s Diamond Park owners, and Riverside’s, were negligent in the assaults, molestation, and robberies I suffered.

3.       The Liberty Resources homosexuals with whom I am forced to reside, whom I once thought I could trust until I learned of their illegal activities, spiraling into a DOJ investigation, is not helping me.

And I am now the bad guy, will wind up paying some sort of further criminal, legal, inhumane penalty, because I say the unsaid, and refuse to comply until I say so, and will never allow another minority paraprofessional to touch me again, not willingly, and I’m worried about what I owe a shelter animal who also suffered. I am not sure who to call. I am sure most of you say give an inch. No one has given one to me. My fear of Trudy’s power, not exaggerated, her constant lashing out at me to give my notice, isn’t enough. I gave it after they attempted to remove me, and she is still threatening me. This is not the United States in which I once believed, not the country where no one would come to my side, give me physical support, not just that of virtual reality. My mother’s sister is a good woman, kept her sister’s children out of foster care, emptied my commode. She cannot do it again, but my father’s indifference, in my adolescent bitterness, is still the inevitable conclusion of my life: I’ll die as hard as I’ve lived. Many do, silently. I did, by the way, receive a job offer Friday and wish I could take pleasure in it. Perhaps next week.

Speed of light

See how fast I am moving? I put Septa in my phone, despite the fact it would be easier to take wheelchair taxi. Victims learn the hard way about the difference between rule of law and justice, and I know I am never going to get a lawyer to care about the fact that Terri Way, once my contemporary equal, talked me out of a lawsuit against Presby, but I am unreasonable, menacing, in exact proportion to cause I have against this religious based socialist plague on the body politic. The rise of the feminine collective easily enough besmirches male stature, whether it's Cosby or Harvey Weinstein, but the spokes barely turn for me, a nine year old girl vaginally penetrated by two African Americans in a home for children, medically brutalized thereafter, pursued sexually by her mother's addicts, an aggravated assault victim under the management of Presby, and Presby's answer is to threaten me with regimentation, and disability activism, whatever its former shielding, has swept me aside, because abuses continued with paraprofessionals, and I no longer want to play, no, under rule of law, Trudy Richardson can terrorize, browbeat, accentuate my anxiety at whim. Marie, my long time dying aunt, says I have to do it myself. Find a new habitat, persuade the oversaturated legal market to help me on my own, although I know all about impatient law firm brutality in the name of billing hours, though Silver & Silver was polite, and that, I appreciate. You're not living here at Riverside.
I am not going to go back and forth with you. 
Lahnisha call the police.
We're done.

This is ten years of a nigger nanny battering ram. Ten years, except it's never done, because the Commonwealth, you, everyone, wants Medicare care money by methodically torturing me into my grave. Cousin Richard may be annoyed with me for saying this, but neither he nor Billy would subject their mother, Marie, to what I've had to endure, simply to survive, and no one will, or can, lift a finger. Toomey wouldn't dare reexamine section 202 abuses, and liberals, hell, this is fascist heaven. Wonderful humanity.

Terminals Heir

What tyrant daughters do to their fathers; the man is 81 years old, married to a community college colleague of my mere, a woman with a caustic upper bite, one on which I might have been trained in my own levels of bitumen, if I did not know better, and at our respective ages life might be more sedate, unless that is another fiction. Yes, Marvel Inhumans, evidence of short term memory lapses, struggle to recall the title. A few minutes of the opening were lost, but its grandiosity resides in my mostly bad fantastical efforts in a similar parallel. Black Bolt is a recognized face, and Lock Jaw is a routable infant, though I’m probably not going to have the luxury of following gods battle for hierarchy over and above its anthesis on ABC’s schedule. I want to ask you why I always let myself get whipped, but no one reading this would dare ask me to examine my own pathological shimmer: I only liked 2 aides out of 7 out of at least the dozen plus who waltzed in and out in nine years, one bolting after I had a bout with Chris the blind on the telephone when he lived near Harvard, “going off,” in the popular lingo, adjustment disorder spurting the vein, while Medusa is free to get a decent gut thrust on the islands. This woman, the aide, orange hair dye, pleaded, “I think you need help,” but what I did to myself only deepened the injury, like an Archimedes’ screw, slicing shaved steak, and at 1:15 eastern standard time, turbulence is a pebble, with a bad bruise on my right bicep. Had the Friday police used force, that certainly would have been a You Tube uproar video: I have never put this Quantum in manual, do not know how, neither would the patrolmen, and they would have had to drag or haul me out of the seat, subduing me into a real incident, because even if I had not struggled, my stress is obdurate as is, and I’m posting to Blogger! I can feel my bones as thin as a wing, and at the same time, I am a granite woman, obdurate, to what end? How can I be respected now, praised for doing decent work when I cannot activate 365 properly to convert Office 2007? Then again, 40k, in views, may not mean what I believe it does, and I don’t have to assert I did not know how deeply hate could go for Trudy and her colleagues, do I? It isn’t entirely pointless. The revenge I felt toward Jewish supervisor, while intense, was a mourning grievance, but not this. Not after how they keep sicking at me, after hours stealth attacks, after years and seven previous managerial follies, my criminal victimizations. Since it isn’t a joke, and not hyperbole, I cannot say it. I know despite what the woman has done she isn’t worth it. Linda, the supervisor, was a heroine, a leader worth following who broke my heart, no Freudian strings attached. This Richardson, no, she is malevolent, and I’m already in enough hot water, but I’m starting to comprehend motive as a decent woman should not—perhaps I should lie down.

Janis Joplin

More police at the behest of the almighty 202 rental agent, and once again, the extent of both defiance and impairment led the officer’s supervisor to overrule Trudy’s threats. Usually, I am relieved when a lifelong torment like this has been removed, but the enormous margin of error I have placed on my shoulders is deadweight: now I am nothing left to lose, regardless of daddy’s scrambling. Lousy timing, as it is weekend, and I am going to have to spend most of it looking for a “place” where I will not have a coronary in terror, but this is what the corporation’s hire of Trudy has done to me, and I have known the modus operandi since 1994. This is a very long time to feel threatened, not even near 62 years of age. I know none of you wish to read anymore, so I shall stop, but they were only victorious in wresting a notice from me due to my stupid, misplaced faith in a very outdated Toshiba. I would give my crooked right elbow to get my files open. I keep phone tagging Tom, with groan of burden. What time I shall have to plug in, let alone write, in the near interval, is an interesting question.

I am now officially homeless, and this after installing my LaserJet drivers on my own; temp shelter appreciated

— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) September 29, 2017

Drums Along The Mohawk

"But we won." --Henry Fonda

I begin to take a dim view of IT technicians as a whole. They should be able to assist me better than they do, whether it’s Geek Squad or PhillyTechGuy or the vendor Tom Cook who did not do what he said he was going to do. These men can walk, they have automobiles. I never stiffed them, and it is always the same game of chicken: I still view myself as a failed scholar. They see a bull dyke in rags, I suppose, one that shares the same urgency as Constance Sumner, but in a different context. I need something else for these last months with my cognitive ability still intact, and if I cannot get it, then mocha bug bran women like building manager Trudy Richardson will have a self-fulfilling prophecy. “We don’t know each other,” she says. Fuck that. She is a nigger fascist as sure as I’m road rage ready to die in authority’s restraints, but if black arrogance has been particular, illegally cruel, on the other end of the spectrum, Caucasians aren’t really giving me appropriate levels of support. Cook has to make a living, but so do I, and I’m in a bit of a bind, one which he claims he can unravel, but he should have done this the first time. I cannot do everything by myself, and though I don’t expect social media to fall over itself coming to my aid, my viewers aren’t of much use either. I mean, I have taken my share of adversity, still forced to live with fringe homosexuals who think 60 style protests is a panacea for institutional medical care, and I’ve taken my share, getting gob smacked like Jody Foster in the insidious opening to The Silence of the Lambs, but I haven’t been devastated by natural disaster (though governmental incompetency may be a sufficient substitute) and should take heart, and work around this obstacle. Except it is my life’s work, and I am still trying to compete in the mainstream, and ta ta, one laptop death takes a fucking month out of my life, when I should be in bed. But my biological rhythms liven between midnight and five am, so I write as if I was still pulling an all nighter for exams. This is my way of being as skeptical of the right as I am of the left. What good is it if no one hears the narrative? 

I cannot claim to have a personal relationship with libertarians. Locally, John you used my name in print with feigned offense, he knows me best, but there is friction between us, as my Roman malevolence truly did widen his eyes, the not cool aging invalid who would delight in guerrilla warfare. If I had the ability to command, there is my solace, in the fanaticism of destruction. In lieu of Apocalypse Now, my father opens his checkbook, but this is tantamount to giving the Ebola virus an aspirin, and I do not see Richard Spencer letting my Machiavellian intellect usurp the niche of his ethnographic conceits, but, absent that personal relationship, tracking men like the muted Tony Stiles and politicos like Austin Petersen interests me. I knew of Austin by name long before social media, and I said to myself, researching him, years ago, so this is a radical, then subsequently discovered this is not the case. Austin isn’t a radical, but my blood lust, that is radical. I am very hard in certain aspects, and agree with Austin’s healthcare privilege view because he is right. All you have to do is observe. Claiming healthcare “rights” obliterates the quality of care issue, and with all medical resources limited as they are, Jimmy Carter’s cancer treatments and McCain’s poor prognosis glioma take away from others. There may be no direct link to my quality of care chain, but nonetheless, it is still a triage of association. Men of stature in 80^th and 90^th decades limit preventative resources for others with more optimal survival, and I may take a swipe at hard policy posts as time allows. That I vaguely recollect Roy Moore's removal from the Alabama bench at all is a mystery.

Hypermanic Climax

"The bad news is I've just been suspended and don't give a fuck!-- libertarian authority pumping lead

Between the 83 84 semesters of my underclassmen years, I had a nursing student roommate named Lee. She was diagnosed with lymphoma and had to withdraw, and though my memory is malleable, I think her boyfriend, an engineering geek, told me she went through an unimaginable medical hell, and all I remember is the drip of her lassitude, curled up on the mattress, or dragging herself into the kitchen for tea. She and I actually got along, but even in my young adult years, trying to expand my melancholy wings, death may have not been ready for me, but was nevertheless an omnipresent force.

not dying

— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) August 30, 2017

I am dubious as to whether she survived, but find it ironic that perhaps I've met her mortality on a grading curve, having such a difficult time with my bowel that a miniscule nosebleed hit my stomach. Rushing to look up lymphoma's symptoms, I have some of them, so it may not be COPD, after all, which finishes the job. If I am really sick, with something killable, then fighting Trudy Richardson and Debra Horne's civil liberty violating tactics are meaningless, in the context of going against medical advice, not that I have any. My nostrils are dry from vapor; it may be nothing or not, with no money to spare to find a practice in this city which I feel I can trust. Nick Gillespie may counsel against anarchy in his many frenetic uploads on Reason, but people in the early stages of dying, if they are as angry as I, might pose a threat to public safety. I am winded, afraid to consume the edibles I have, sufficient for a 48 hour period, sipping my coffee, saturated with old NSAIDS due to the damp changeability of the weather, but that doesn't mean I'm incapable of going down for my own sense of lost cause. That I diced a few metaphysical chives and sent Nick an invitation to connect on Linked wasn't, as might be construed, a need for legitimacy. I was offering respect, and told him we'd disagree. I am not, as is he, as is Austen Petersen, a social liberal, and no people, I may not live long enough to olive branch that divide. I know, intellectually, that hate crimes in the name of intolerance only shifts the spectrum back around again, but as for me, personally, poverty and municipal corruption created my internal willingness to go postal. By corruption I do not mean a Pelican Brief conspiracy, but rather, like most things urban, ineptitude. I am feeling my oats this morning, tired of exterminator visits making me over-anxious, but a good deal of my trauma resides in public housing extermination: I was attacked in my wheelchair access unit on the day he was due, and the contractors at Riverside are the raison d'etre for my duress non-eviction threat of eviction if I tell Trudy to go fuck herself again I will be evicted. 33 years of playing ravaged boob slut to the creased malice of Vincent Price in medieval fashions. I am filing with the Human Relations Commission now, but what I am attempting to convey is ideology isn't a panacea, in the shell game of a libertarian who's who. I want to give my notice, and I want to give it, badly enough that I'm getting sick, and it's fundamentally unfair. I nearly died because this landlord was indifferent to who had access in the much smaller Diamond Park. I shouldn't have to threaten whatever time I've left by divorcing myself from location I have always hated. I never wanted Riverside. Never.

Great Expectations

we're gonna keep comin at ya

I cannot write a post long enough to explain with what frequency case managers intertwined themselves in my life, whether vocationally, or mental health issues due to my mother, or in institutional rehabilitation, but Presbyterian Homes, from the time I moved into Riverside in 1994, virtually invented same sex marriage in relation to the frequency with which their managers and social workers disavowed my right to privacy, and I do not mean solely the current team. Debra Horne is, for lack of any other way to phrase it, a sad testament to the human condition when individuals with low IQ interbreed, and this is exactly why Presby hired her. Intimidating, high tan, Mississippi accent like bile in her throat I think she came here in a jean jumper in 05. Black. Bull. Dyke, just ahead of her tenants to wield her invisible baton. I did not know what I was setting myself up for with this shuffling minority matron, her hernia, lesbianistic overtones, nearly amalgam of the orderlies who abused me under Dr. Chance. After what I have been through in North Philadelphia, I carry no guilt about despising her, don't care a jot if mother's family is appalled, and this woman's cruel arrogance is a living rebuttal to whatever Jeffrey's treatise is on the right's collectivism. Minorities can be as morally corrosive as anyone else, and it used to be Debra I wanted to have punished, but that has since been upgraded. Debra's immediate superior has committed a criminal offense, and I'll see Trudy Richardson on the other side of a civil suit, or force Philadelphia's finest to mortally injure me, and one of you shall give my lifelong melancholy turned rogue a fine eulogy, I am sure. Mettle, spirit, and all that, even if there aren't people quite suited to human existence, people we'd be better off without.


But in 1986, I tried hard to be a good compliant tenant, nearly slept with the son of a reverend, and discovered identity politics, a righteous cause, in Jonathan Capehart's voice, to be nothing more than moral poison. I have always more or less enveloped myself in despondency. Some quadriplegics do better, some worse, and my intelligence, applied to my pain, makes me an existential threat-- my Senator's tolerance doesn't want to peer too deeply into my militancy which applauds him most of the time, and I'd stop Casey junior cold, not having anything to lose in the darkness of the unsaid, only made worse because, I know, intrinsically, my hourglass doesn't have too much quality sand left before the upper chamber metes out my allotment. Look at all this has taken out of me, the economics of appeasing "a fraternal contractor," who your taxes subsidizes to intentionally break *us* down. Some bloody system. I spent my savings cleaning this apartment. Not all of it, but a great deal went into Tim's pocket, or a cleaning service, then Karina. Now it has evaporated, and I have since been under constant threat because I don't want to be whored off again under welfare's sterling subcontractors. I've yet to hear any libertarian stampede, however, to run my vacuum, throw in a load of laundry. They've all got hard ons for block chain code.

Begrudging Victory

Hugo (2011) is a great 21st century film primarily due to its visual structure, and the effect of being shot in 3D. If I can acknowledge Scorsese's motifs and still find reasons to contend with them, he beats me here, hands down. This is what I get for believing he only shot in New York. The Paris we visualize in the opening has a fairy tale quality, the opening set up isn't afraid of leaving you utterly baffled, and the script offers us a dazzling feedback loop which only cinema can do, in all its magnificence. If I wasn't in such a crisis of age, I might have wept over the saga of Hugo Cabret and all his secret passages. Oh, the A-list team did its part, not Kingsley so much-- this type of role, an ambiguous character with secrets, is part of his terrain, but Lee as the stony, ominous librarian? Law as the myopic father who might have been nominated for sainthood? This might be a good place to quit Blogger. Beneath the surface of every liberal is the hypocrisy. The Internet did help me, but this was before social media had its shit fest, between 99 and 04. Since, I've been scrambling for pennies on my labor. All my words have changed nothing: Trudy Richardson is still a southern nigger transplant with bran for brains who has put me under nearly impossible levels of duress. Just because we do not speak it doesn't mean it isn't true. Lisa Durden understands this, so did Google's engineer. Both have suffered  economically for it. Where is the virtue of freedom of speech if, in corporate culture, it is financially punitive? The abuses I die with are a deck of cards with their own range of flavors, and as I've never been loved, I am too old to be capable now. I am not having the best week, but I will not go too far afield.

Big Box Pits

"we have no housing options at this time" --Pat Toomey's office, my fantasy avenger

One of the most sophisticated of the late Law & Order series, before Jesse Martin left and the fat poster boy for nigger grievances took over, now making his drum roll rapid timing on black-ish, is "Bottomless". Purely as a story, it opens like an exquisite floral bouquet, with an implicit acknowledgement of the fact the we're all expendable on the basis of income, career skill set, and age. It doesn't quite come out and call Walmart a devil, or simplify old school identity politics through Lieu and her retired boss of yesteryear, but it is a rather deft spin on ableism, white privilege, and the truth that one person's pain may initiate an investigation, in this case, grieving Chinese dry cleaners with a dead daughter fresh off her bar exam, with a frivolous lawsuit opening into criminally complicit sex which winds its way back to how deft Beijing is at playing the lack of accountability game, to the point the initial manslaughter is virtually obliterated from view. We're all little drops in the bucket, blanketed over by multi-billion dollar corporations, and I ridicule what, in contemporary terms, is a mortal emotional wound, one which I can no longer quite control (it's hot), with nicotine or fish oil or my usual methods, by tap dancing a mafia godmother game. Psychologically, it no longer is one, but for the fact I soften dissolute menace by putting the people with power on a pack of cards, and trying to hold myself together by rationalizing that I do not want to be placed in a psychiatric facility over ignorant vermin. Fine, but the problem: I've never, ever, gotten a victory for the cruelty I have sustained. Trudy Richardson and Debra Horne will no more than likely get a slap on the wrist for the devastating damage I've been forced to swallow for 32 years with "fraternal corporate" contractors with HUD's localized housing authorities. I've only ever had one of them, but they are all collusionary, and  complicit, with inept federal civil servants. In the end, it is all the same. Politburo or federal civil servant. I cannot sit and cull law firms on my cell when I have a fissure in my chest ready to burst my body and spray the walls with hemoglobin. The day I spoke to the gentleman at Silver & Silver I held the oar steady and just said okay, resigned. He is the one who said "wait," and gave me a referral, but it is too late. I hate Debra. I hate Trudy. And the disability activists. My humanity, at the moment, is too compromised for my grit. I am 56, battling elisions, repetitions, fear of my family, fear I'll never publish a brand article again (ie, people who publish in The Philadelphia Inquirer don't wind up like half-assed idiots on niume, or do they?). I had to reach for William Shatner's name, an actor I've known as Captain Kirk since I was a baby. 


Libertarian writers only hit liberals on the most general terms when it comes to Walmart. They need to take better aim, and have my courage, if not the cliff face on which I am so precariously ready to topple, to illustrate that it is also federalism which leads companies like V Halter to stick its thumb up its ass, as there are no private contractors for naval fleets. Today is my 27th, corrected, anniversary with AT&T, as the grand old utility reminds me. I almost left them in 1999 for unlimited Internet, never howled at them, or complained, and they've rolled over for me like a beached whale. This is my stand in for interpersonal intimacy.