A Screech and Melancholy Smatter

For those in my audience who remember this ongoing saga from LiveJournal, my fabled transvestite friend, whose metaphysical entrails I have roasted in any number of posts, he *remembers my name is Marinelli*, and so what then, of my descriptive character assassinations that have illuminated my emotional pain, or the combined rhetorical roar of both Erik and Cassie's zeal amounting to a handful of dust? The duplicitious bitch bastard whose ethics unwittingly destroyed my hope of any economic security for my old age is a dying moron who remembers to be nice to me out of pity, while both he and I subsist in a dark fabled version of American Stalinism disguising itself as the willful blindness of propriety. I dashed upstairs yesterday to see if the vendor had any useful produce, and was ready to hang myself over the geriatric horror I've had to live with these last 27 years, and yes, my strength is breaking down and I cannot take it anymore. "Write it then," Monica Carr said, my former fat Catholic ex-attendant who has lupus, as I've told you, and called the police on me 12 years ago because she could not do her time. "You have a wonderful way of expressing yourself." she exclaimed, and I can see a novel about independent living and disability advocacy in the voice of John Irving


But I am not a novelist with that kind of timing, and will probably never finish the novels on my hard drive that I've all but abandoned. To start a third which might leave me with the possibility of getting sued in the creation of a roman a clef, this seems unrealistic. In the right mode, I am a competent journalist, genetically predisposed poet, using the blogger format to my own inappropriate ends, which speaks for itself. I borrowed Merle Miller's resurrected novel from the kindle library. Three chapters in, I am struggling not to abandon yet more repressed homosexual narcissism. So far I find it a mediocre expose of the other side of the Beat era as lost generation. I have missed some films that I wanted to mine for us, but I am not sure I am up for another browbeating of Saving Private Ryan. A few minutes to make up my mind, for a long and grueling exercise about my grandmother's generation, one that knew its duty.