Inveterate Malice

If I was as ruthless as Peter Thiel, I'd give blogger up. I cannot restart my adsense account because I don't know how to reopen it and don't know either how to utilize Google Forums to get where I need to be, don't see many bloggers who are self funding in these particular domains, I wield my tongue like a volcanic lash, and defied terms of service guidelines to be illegal, and did not tone it down because of a law firm threat, but because I probably am not going to see sunrise at 60. Yet I'm here every day, starving, trying to keep father's resources at bay, but the way to do that is to cease talking to the Aunt. She forces the drifting family patriarch who made me his executor to assist me; it isn't right. Padre has a right to some peace. I found my way back to Beacon through the Levy's Writer's Block none of us use, going to try Beacon again, but I am far too tired to post, even as I realize, to my amazement, that I am giving the building manager the solution she seeks. Fear for my survival is not enough to keep me here in Riverside Presbyterian. There is no respect for the authority of Trudy Richardson, and I treat her in inveterate fashion, living here with so many episodic crises, I need to at least make the attempt to leave, even if social media isn't fully attuned to my subtext.

It may surprise you to learn I am civil to a few of the younger minorities, like Amneshia, a collegiate age guard. She said to me "I would do it (give your notice)," as I've been unhappy a very long time; from what she knows of my story, even she feels corporate should give me the damn transfer. My readers who have read enough to know the gist could telephone Spring Mills and say give the poor spastic what she needs. What is a telephone call?

610-834-1001

I go over Richardson's head now, taunting the dezins of the domestic in Montgomery County, my rancor very much equal opportunity. I hissed into a Vice-President's voicemail fearlessly, threatening institutional duress. For one of such slender means I really buy into my role as the mafia don with cojones on the cunt. I just wrote cunt and made myself an imagined hermaphrodite, which is why Google corporate washes its hands, in part.

I am really angry at Petter Thiel, for the thing itself, but also have much thinking to do. Have a good morning. I have to pack in a bit early.

Disaffection

"thank you for following me" a direct message 

Mr. Harris may have forgotten that he was following a nasty a bituminous troll, because he sent yours truly a direct message which asserted that he'd "return the favor," when I decided to let his feed on my stream, an indicator that he may have ignored my links. My synaptic connections aren't what they used to be either; I too struggle with fine print, but I try to visit my twitter page and trim the branches.

I may stop linking my DIA posts so often, however, if the moral majority is going to pressure Blogger to silence me. Where that pressure came from might be nice to know, but I am not going to let it stop me, not that I can fight Google, I know that. This software belongs to the company, and the First Amendment applies to the public square-- but Blogger succeeded in making me angrier, inadvertently, perhaps.

I am, on occasion, chastised by the establishment for lack of relevance, which annoys the holy shit out of me when it comes to social media. I wanted to talk about texts, on Linked In, with those who taught them, but down came the muzzle, "lack of relevance," without me breathing a word about my personal situation. I could not fight back, Linked In couldn't tell me anything, and yet I had to be mortified.

This isn't virtual stigma following real life prejudice? We do not have to thank followers in thousands of automated emails. Think about it. I'll leave my account. I like Medium, and think it's better for us than thousands of writer authors tweeting what we won't read. I like BeaconReader too, and for that I need twitter. 

I'm mean, hurtful, and occasionally vile, but I am also challenging and divergent, and you really need to stop and think about the price people like me are asked to pay. I am in exactly the same room I was when I was punted off Poets & Writers. How many of those authors have moved on, been able to change? I am in exactly the same studio where Linda squealed to me like a pig about her orgasms, and she may have left the disability center, but I am sure the bitch has her mortgage paid off. I know she, and Josie Byzek, whom I've also offered choice words, have online access. Jimmi Shrode, who is afraid of me, may too. Jimmi is afraid of me, instinctively, and he should be, but he can walk, and has what he wants, at least until Erik dies. I'm alone; I'm in pain, and I live in an environment I never wanted to be, and all you fine players can't handle it.

Limits

The Able Act is an expansion of the SSA work incentive known as PASS; this is what today's crop of otherwise brainless assholes are excited about; just as the ADA was grandfathered into federal statue on the basis of the 504 Rehabilitation Act, the Able Act would simply expand the tent to the mentally retarded who can be bridled, like a mule, to engage in simple slave labor tasks. Not necessarily a bad idea. Idiots become senior citizens if they live long enough-- my scorn, as usual, goes to the progressives who think all this layering achieves anything at all. You are shielded from the veneer of bad case managing and its bigotry. The Levy brothers of Beacon do not see it. Offering me inclusion on Writersblock was kind, and even discriminating, since my foul language and blatant prejudices have their ups and downs, but that kindness is not analogous to repairing a foul and evil system. You do not see how Trudy Richardson and Debra Horne treat me for my non-compliance; the fact that I dehumanize them makes my readers uncomfortable, and a part of my imagination enjoys their denigration. The only one who understood that was Erik, the dying transsexual. He told me to tell Debra to "go fuck herself" quote unquote, on a bad post stroke evening when I still leaned on a dialogue with the devil for lack of any other outlet. Some years back, but after my molestation in 2006.

For whatever stupendous reason, I was going to tweet about my bad transfer to bath chair on New Years Day. Why, I have no idea. Nicotine cramps impair my interior transfer balance. Swiveling back to power chair is more difficult than pivoting out, but finally, after two hours of trying to plant my soles, I did nit fall only because my left arm held my weight long enough for my right elbow to wedge my right buttock in. No tweet soliciting advice, no guard seeing me as a naked brick bat, no cop. It was close, but why tweet it? Even as most of us carry digital reality even moments before dying, why am I now so much engaged with 160 character affectation when it is too late for me? When urban ineptitude destroyed everything for me, even as I function on superhuman antipodes.

I had forgotten about gimpgirl. She bores me, and my caustic sensibility offends her no doubt, despite the fact she retweeted my snip about the ACLU on speed dial-- but again, no one from the online disabled community interacts with me-- why? Because I have crucified CILS as segregated bullshit? Relentlessly embarrassed Linda Dezenski? Disengaged from a midget like Louise with a bad attitude even though I held my frustration in? Disability activists are strident, unipolar, and evidently cowards. If they were truly in control of their IL centers, I would not have emerged from being lied to for four years, humiliated by suburban classmates, and none of you have anything to say. If I am so wrong, so warped, as cripples, you should. I'm going to shut Liberty Resources down, even if I have to go to prison, and I mean it. The last of my assets mull Ritter's bimbo.

Poop deck doxing

"There is nothing so dangerous as a woman with nothing left to lose."-- voice over narrator.

I recognize Caitlin's description of the problem of digital mob rule; its potential impact lurked in the background long before Spike Lee fell into an "I'm gonna get that sucka," mindset and posted the wrong address for his followers, with the resulting fallout. I am guilty of it myself, to the extent that even if my former disability center is lying about my former supervisor's departure, the sheer force of my emotional pain has had a significant dampening impact. Fortunately for you, I do not opine on Leelah/Joshua Alcorn's orientation. Not due to lack of courage, simply that it is news to me and I can't waddle out buffalo chips chasing every prairie fire, except to reiterate what I've conveyed before. Suicide is selfish. A select number of individuals may have no choice at the end of the day, but I have trouble believing that a 14 year old's suffering was so extreme that he/she had to punish his family with a irreversible solution. Look at the tenacity of Cosby's accusers, or genocide survivors. A didactic scold like Martin Amis isn't wrong about the strength of survivors, using his novel art to excavate fascism. (More on that another day, I have to tackle the pragmatics of post-European imperialism)

China's news agency put out the usual statistical factoid that 35 people died in riots on the mainland. I'm willing to bet John Lewis, as an Atlantic contributor, isn't in temple lighting incense for these 35-- my point being that today's activists should be as honest with their blinders as my generation is not.. My scapegoating exorcism occurred 15 years ago, and nothing has changed about the language as a whine of dependency. I do not wish to return to it, at least not as a protester. The world of IL is a subset, just as this Texas Monthly on Michelle Lyons is a subset, an oracle tableau of stark banality which is not really about the death penalty, because sometimes, there are no answers, and the European line in the sand over life imprisonment glosses over their parallel ethical morass in the worst cases. What Pamela is exploring is a subculture with its own price tag, creating its own expatriates.

It was posted to Writersblock by Venkat, and is the best long form article of 2014, receiving a staggering 8 votes. It may be read as a progressive victory in the wings, but there is always an undertow, a warning in those wings. Surviving is never quite the same when what has to be survived is overwhelming. How we vanish, it always has a ripple effect.

Senseless Prattle

I'd like to offer brief praise to Mike Levy, and Writersblock here sponsored by Beacon. Sometimes, not being able to run my mouth has fringe benefits, as I am literally torturing myself about keeping or removing my account with the Henry James list serv. This is all very nonsensical, I know, letting myself get familiar with a munchkin and divorcing myself from that, while carrying the mark of Cain on my forehead for my deplorable lack of tact, but it is slightly more than that. I once found the Jamesian community valuable, feel like I've contributed to a devaluation among its teaching colleagues who know each other, some of whom would find meeting me awkward and burdensome, so what use does the group still have for me?

If I want to write about James I can do it, suffer peer review, without the posting nonsense going on today. They used to actually talk about things that made me think-- but Mike have provided me with a useful tool, and I owe him the gratitude of never being unkind! He is a decent fellow!