Crack Pipes

The opening of the 09 Pippa confused me at first due to still difficult ABC/WPVI reception, not West's direction. Woman directors tend to take more chances with vicious undercuts, and Rebecca's vintage is no exception. Initially I believed Bello, whom I tend to track through the buried anguish in those almond eyes, was the female lead, but I sorted the three blonds out before Arkin ran decrepitude to ground. Alan Arkin has recycled himself in interesting ways as the man who feels "the dirt in his mouth," but unlike my recent sexual appetites for hale septuagenarians, or the sandpaper smoothness  of Jason Beghe (yes, I'd like to fuck the actor in the latest Wolf formula, just as I said in archive), Arkin carries a lizard like repulsion more suited to my distaste for Andie MacDowell. Crush is less chancy than Pippa, but McKay brings us closer to truth about impermanence of human bonds, to find the motif swimming in the undercurrent of a vacant first decade farce.

Linda has her side of the story, my former supervisor. Louise, the detachable Munchkin from the James list (ouch) with whom I stupidly Joanne you stupid fuck became familiar, told me this was confusing--my topic cut into my obsessive, dangerous pain with pongo stick woman. My sister and brother say the same thing about my verves in email. Sometimes this is deliberate, a writer taking chances with fragmentation, and pain. Linda has wiped out many subordinates before me, and the only reason I gained any ground on her is because our breach with each other violated the center's sacred federal mandate, but my posts with so many hints, not only indicate trauma that resets at ground zero of a massive depression, but may leave her vulnerable. Live wire risk, but I want her punished, removed from the center, and compensation for my trauma, knowing full well the trigger, my mental corrosion, is life abuse anguish that she unwittingly made lethal. 

She did what she did in response to me mainly without much thought to it, and I pulled on her. Willpower to shut it down when she was really hurting me might have been the better part of impulse control which broke on me, but I cannot turn it back. If I haul Liberty into court, they will castigate my rather obvious fixation. I know this, but if I do nothing next time she will wind up killing another naive asshole. I did confuse her, but that was my subordination to her, fearful of being more forthright. 

I am one of those, the one who jumps if an alpha like Linda gave me the height, the altitude. A challenge for white chick resolution films. I am unkind to my own passive recipients like Louise. I did not want knowledge of her brittle bones, and regret that I created the situation for termination, which indicates I'm as fraudulent as Limda, on a smaller scale. The only impact I had on the younger woman was to cease the shared experience interchange, but I had to. The interaction became an obligation rather than a desire, and if my trust was destroyed by real people, her OI wasn't any guarantee of safe harbor. Had she wanted creative writing emulation, I might have reconsidered.

I haven't had sexual intercourse since 1997, angry with the husband for leaving me vulnerable; he neither cared nor had enough time. Maybe you can understand why Linda's voice preening about convulsions with such self satisfaction is still an emotional scourge.