Being sick and old with a potentially fatal contagious disease has drawbacks but maybe a few readers will come to understand that there are grounds for concern. My former school is filled with angry people among whom came continuers of the high risk hazing claimants behind Mt. Desert Island. In addition to putting me up to catching Covid 19 they put something seminal in my coffee at Red Elm after an Out Now rally in which I was filmed holding a banner of martyrs while a very hard rain fell. This supposed Drama Company has been around killing people a long time. I think you might agree that it isn’t innocuous Chiller Theater Hillary when it gets to the point when they are encircling a soul with a death grip and saying they want fulfillment of a Hollywood movie using a theme of taking a liberal’s son and making it the antiChrist in a delusional Second Coming arranged by monks of war at magic Mt. Rainier, now you see it now you don’t, against the unearthly quaking and trembling of their nuclear trumploads. But sadly, this is the so-called Revolution No. 9 of Hustler’s status quo queer lobby (Cuomo).
At this point everyday is like a head-on collision and the sad fact is the aggressor monitors reward such metaphors with acting out. Just as Nola Renz left groceries and an e-note, “we are all in the same boat,” my attempt to advise the Kennedys was answered by disappearances in the water and an online hooligan, “are the mail on your side Jim?” There is a caustic element of Dr. Nelson Harrison’s “you aren’t special,” about the attacks on the Kennedys that come down like Bob Dylan’s Murder Most Foul from the AC clique of Agatha Christie whose British/America publishers outhigherness liberal sociology by renaming her book, “Ten Little Niggers,” as “Ten Little Indians.” No points, they tell me, for your muse.
One of the things my sweetheart card from Courtney over Saoirse taught me recently was not only the ancient lesson that faith is a great victory but also that I am not universally derided as the bad guy, I am not constantly lied to through the teeth by actors claiming they care. So it’s not like understood as everyone this party line, “you know who is the enemy.”
The spiritual assassination by Pitt Administration of a nerve agent damaged child hostage of terror hate criminals apparently enjoying the auspices of police agency themselves is not really news. Someone as confused as me cannot be tolerated may have a certain nobility of sentiment among inside cliques of high responsibility, but to therefore use someone like me as a dummy and decoy while denying the civil liberties of a Section 8 elderly deaf man is I guess a signifier of the change in our society from the old days when people were allowed to hold hands.
When it comes to Pittsburgh I never learn. I had a moment of delusion when I became sick with Covid. I imagined Mike Doyle, the area representative, getting angry in the vernacular characteristic of that region at the Trump Administration, but of course that spiral recoiled and two more Kennedys disappeared, into the whirlpool of laughs that Wilma Coon provoked accusing me of plotting to kill Ted Kennedy one day, beyond all contemptible and cruel things to say, while they taunted me with a page enjoying something like Saoirse’s middle name in her Lewinsky beret.
If you knew the truth about Ultrahigh you would shudder with disbelief. The first attack had a guru of self-immolation named Michel Foucault who set a standard for ruminations as intellectual property and put the truly deranged in advocate position at higher power syndrome. This in turn meant, to them, sadistic claimant as they put it “impinging” on a “persona” they constructed. This was very intimate. For example, quite some time before the second attack, UHC sent me a vapor steamer and someone I knew from the drama division of the Cold War show in Chinatown needed one so badly I gave it to him, and when I replaced it the new one burnt my hand. The headline: 100,000 dead Americans will be a good job, really captured the Trump Presidency for me.
Sex traps are touchdowns for the assassins. Their slanders and grapevines are meant to sap the will of strength and courage every bit as much a Covid 19 does. Pro-Life doesn’t really describe the octopus that finds Neva Pornographers working with masked avengers announcing their agency as an anti-abortion comeuppance. When I was a child a man named Colucci took me to meet a man named Randy who had a camera and lights all set up and asked me to strip for him. I said no. Very soon afterwards I was brutally mauled and gassed by Gary Pitman. Gary Hart set himself up with a revealing Colorado twist of Rice and beef, Donna Rice and “Where’s the Beef?” Mondale in a reminder of the Warren Commission refrain, “there wasn’t enough to feed a sparrow. Hart and Pitmen.
Nordenberg is an old hand of putting me up to suicidal seeming bloodoath and death vow, with Clint Eastwood backing up the manuvers by weather watcher style. The top dog in Pitt Law School under Nordenberg when he looked askance upon my person was Albert (second was a proud and serious woman who kept a fist behind her back as she addressed the court). Somehow, Albert, a mirthful kid, got an apartment built on Baum Blvd. behind an Exterminator billboard advertisement. He said to me, “you’re not someone I would want to take with me on a dangerous mission.” As I reflected on Tom Hanks helicopters, I did also wonder in whose exact interest would such a dangerous mission be? Anyway, I wasn’t in school for the military. I was a library clerk. The magnitude of the war game they deafened me for an ignored the rules to achieve makes me wonder if he meant that or was dissembling.
Social Anthropology is the name of the game for Pit and the nomiker junta came about from what State of Washington writer Frank Herbert called a “breeding scheme.” But it seems undesirable to attach to Gov. sInlee’s pro-earth ideas a partnership with Trump, who made his money nearby in Klondike and evoked Dealey Plaza in saying he could kill someone in Times Square. I’ve come to contemplate a lot of the personnel’s names, like Vicky Funari. They impinged on me a long time constructing a macabre persona. Like, I cried when I saw the picture of Saoirse and the poem to her, and wanted to show Skip Adams of Mercy, but this vendetta breeding scheme works from long ago, and anyone who isn’t a CO (conscientious objector) to Video knows Skip Ad is always a pop up.
Is it a libtard to say we should have worked on Good Neighbor Policy, work from home allowances, mass transit? To not scorn and mock talking to each other? It seems unfair of discourse to present the idea as a Godhead that a Japanese violinist from SONY is somehow a sacred African spiritualist because of Brian Eno’s defense of Reagan.
