Porchetta Links

Things were going fairly well in the waning afternoon sunlight of mid-November's autumn, nature having reminded the latest east coast starling who is actually in charge, things settled down, and although spastic has no hope of earning a fucking cent on her poetry, playing the guilt game with the even more ephemeral literary journal was an active back step, a deceleration (do not kid yourself about my rage-- I may be leery of pushing the envelope with Google, but if I believed that I had the physical ability to carry out a tactical assault for justice, barring that I still have layers of politicians and the civil service to engage, and pity wooing, after this is exhausted, my temperament is such I'd choose this over post modern polemics, if my intelligence could counterbalance my physical helplessness, though the compassionate house nigger lifting me off the foam mattress which was just a little too low for me to do my lateral transfer suggests otherwise). I would spare Tim, in the age old tradition of objective indifference. The man may hold me back, now and again, because of his limitations, none the less, my target is the power that denies the regulatory system nearly any degree of flexibility. Rising up from the black lagoon into this tranquil interlude comes Aunt's obsession with niece and a new mattress for her daybed. My ex found the daybed and I owe him there because its sturdy wooden frame works, gives me hand grips.

For those remaining fans of Terry Gilliam's cult status, this is my aunt with the mattress obsession. Yes, the old woman with her frightening face lift, her ostomy issues, is on my side, and I know that. I lived with her before imprisoning myself in public housing. I know she wants to help, and that she sees how my sister's exploitation has hurt me, on top of my trauma (for newbies not following, I gave my sister a substantial loan during the Great Recession, wanted her to help me during the building renovations, and sister, who won't lift a finger for anyone else, wants to put me in a nursing home. She has husband, education, four children, a house worth 500k, and needs everyone else to support her; you figure it out).

Niece tries to tell aunt that niece needs to track down editor boss for cv for the editorial position, and that the optimal time was then, while I had the space, landlord leaving me the fuck alone, I have to plow through my documents, but no. Aunt and niece shatter each other's nerves, despite me telling her to throw mattress out, nope. Favorite cousin hauls ass with senile uncle. Good to see cousin, teach him kindle, tell him blog is up on Azmo for download. Coz is going to help me advertise... I really want to try for this job, one last great push, and I am screwed now, because the foam needs an inch, or an inch and a half base, and while I have to sort that out and reroute my newfound lack of room, because Tim just leaves things, I am running out of time to put a competitive submission in place. He was a terrific authority figure, my AC editor, and taught me how to be a better journalist. On deadline, I was in Paula's heat for the fellow,  and I have no idea what he looks like. The odds of me finding him before this Thursday? The issue of the economically disadvantaged at a standstill in time management is not new. If I do not apply, if I miss taking a last heroic leap, I might as well be Tuttle vanishing in a layer of ordinance.