Another One Bites The Dust

"She needed to be more liberal."-- Theodore Dreiser

I should be quiet when I get like this, knowing it is too late baby, whether I run or not, whether I cancel my Prime Membership or bite the bullet, whether I voluntarily throw myself back into Pennsylvania's mental health system, or not. I know that system well, and know it will not help me. Pacify me? That depends. Help me? No. Therapy cannot circumvent permanent destitution. Therapy, at least in Southern PA, is a secularized New Testament. Forgive. Think of what it would do for you. Declare bankruptcy. This is what I got from an intake counselor circa 2K during my nervous breakdown after I flipped on Linda, who is evidently her same pussycat self, from what I can gather. Linda's casualties sit on one end, and the eel in her sneakers and overcoat jumped ship on a railroad grant. Perhaps I am making things impossibly difficult deliberately, breaking myself faster than Presbyterian Homes would do it for me. When I told NYT on twitter that I am a genocide survivor it was not exaggeration. Section 202 takes broken people in and breaks them further. I have seen black schizophrenics fracture the faces of their grandchildren, rolling back to my unit, face the color of a turnip, screaming for police. I cannot forget that afternoon. I ran from my own mother's insanity to something much worse, whiplash upon whiplash upon whiplash, I purchased the Gladhandler a candy bar.
Who is he? No one, a simple cripple, 70 years old. Follows Erik like a fucking puppy. Sourced me, however, for AccessLife, so I am kind, even if I upload the cart and dump my bleeding scars on a tacit, naive simple bastard who never got laid. He loves his nigger dependence. Wince. Go ahead. Now I'll shut up. Jerry always hated that imperative command. I may just vaguely recall George Michael. I said, oh, must be AIDS. To my regular viewers (do I have any?) I need not continue in that vein. I'll lie down an hour. Pout about losing Mhz on WYBE.

The Price of Lazarus

"He's like ice!"-- Alain Absire, Lazarus, a novel, page 101, 1988 edition

There is a price to autonomic function we dread, such as the discovery that Sweden maintains a royal family in a relatively permissive Marxist society. Who knew? Who even bothers to apply themselves to European parliamentary systems when so few of us are literate in the American primary process? There is a political drama on WYBE, fairly contemporary, partially eschewed; this is due in part, to the fact that, in Sweden, a conservative in the American political idiom means you wind up with the Clintons. 

Beneath the surface, the American power couple who've been around too long are scorned by everyone, and everyone knows it, just as everyone knows, come January 20th, 2017, Bill Clinton will have achieved the impossible, essentially doing an end run around the 22nd Amendment. You don't truly believe Hillary will actually run the West Wing, do you? This partially eschewed drama is wearisome, wearing on my skeletal brutishness, its title a pun on the actual Crown Princess Victoria. It is a sequential roller coaster on the political fortunes of  Ms. Elkblad, a woman who will invariably climb to the top because of the glaring flaws around her, villainous political advisers, wife beaters. That segment, the Regiscide, the dowager mostly skipped. The Swedish actor cast, a credible veteran, is many things, but a wife beater, no.

However, one never knows about these things, and "The Sacrifice" became relevant out of nowhere. One of the prominent ministers in the social democratic run has Alzheimer's, and she's a secular Jewish liberal to boot, a group which loves to dictate its moral values to hedonists playing dangerous games, and of a sudden, the spastic dowager is caught with her pubic hair in her zipper as European drama serves up a Ronald Reagan dish. All the sudden I mind the mentor of Sweden's perky little idealist, Charlotte, mind the wound of the fundamental unfairness of a woman denied her turn.

Istanbul

7.99 is not a bad price to be inundated with the state socialist model which controls most of the world. In my cable deprived free broadcast zone, WYBE runs Mhz feed, when not broadcasting the Russians in English, on 35.5, and I've no idea how this new streaming package will affect my droll allegiance to Mikael Persbrandt as the sole conservative in Sweden, or a parody of one, barring Johan Norberg, who has earned liberal critiquing rights, along with Niall Ferguson, with the seal of approval from the American left. But European procedurals bore me too now, and I really only watch to see how those corrupt souls who didn't emigrate manage themselves in the world, weighing in my mind Roman tolerances over my current non-compliance in Philadelphia's African shadow state. I do not know that it would necessarily be worse. Italians know my type, and deal with the abrasions of the social outcast with a thousand years of theatrical absurdity behind them. 

This model is damaging my health, and that because of a Medicare bean counter. I give my notice in July, assuming I live that long, and take Septa to my proverbial stepmother's home and camp outside a block in Springfield. Enough to provoke an eighty year old padre over the edge?

What I fail to understand is why Presbyterian Homes doesn't evict me. I've all but labeled myself a reactionary racist, brimming with ferocity. I hate nearly all the tenants, and cannot think of many exceptions. I've satirized Trudy Richardson as a google-eyed fool, and Debra Horne is a Neanderthal dredged from the Mississippi River. Their parent employer all but treats me like a rabid zoological specimen, utilizing the carrot and stick approach. The interior of this studio is a deplorable statement on a nearly lifelong battle with indigence, and nothing moves, as I've stated in the past, until something does. By the time the motherfuckers who run this company decide to litigate my competency, I'll be out on the street, shifting the parameters. I made contact with one wheelchair company, one, and I simply don't have the time to play the single payer option system for a tilt chair design disaster. I let Magee do this to me, and I have no strings to pull.

If I thought it would do any good, I'd have myself arrested for assaulting Democrats.