Forever In Bluejeans

"Where do I find the cones?"


This was Frank, telephoning me Christmas day, since it is the time of year that he makes his Spanish coffee. You will consider it an improvement that I have stopped peppering his hideously deformed epidermis with invective, and that because I no longer care, whether you consider this a good, or bad thing. I wanted to love a variation of my father, burnished by a humanist polish, and wound up living my grandmother Pauline's life with Big Lou, the more favorable comparison going to the fruit picker and WW2 laundry driver, my grandfather, and so what, so say, I may be an alpha next to you spastic, but I have inane conversations with my husband, lover, or dildo. Every compensation we make is a mechanism for coping with the truth.

I dance on the grave of my failed marriage to this man, laugh starkly that even here I invested so much in trying to ignore the fact that our sexual intimacy was an exchange: his obedience for using my vagina breasts and anus for his gratification, which ties in to the distortion of aesthetics in the human body throughout the known history of our civilizations, their history of using form for the mythos of their own manifest destiny; my link is not the series I am recalling, however. [I remembered the series after log off and will pick up on it later.]

My agitation increases significantly with bowel impaction, and it would bode well for me to remember it the next time my monologues threaten to rival Jamie Foxx performing race related schizophrenia, except that I do not delude, only feel like a rat in a cage waiting for Debra Horne's checklist to finish me off, more Sancho than Beowulf to my draconian cleverness. Why don't I just put this woman out of my mind? Why does it frighten me so much that an idiot makes me feel less than human? I have dealt with her type all of my life, and I would like to stop matching wits with them. This wish shall never be granted to me-- unless.

That I am damned runs at this point, mmm, 93 percent to 7 for unless? As far as I can ascertain, I am not failing, but do exhibit some death stage symptoms, interestingly enough, and to take a clunker trope from The Collector, where the photographer connected to the journalist who has the autistic son who can discern the intent of the devil, how is hope still possible for someone like myself? My relations with my brother and sister are damaged, forever. Easy enough for them to exploit my sense of obligation as a barren elder, but quite another matter to offer me social equality, visit me despite where I live, I am facing the total abandonment prevalent among both the elderly and disabled populations. Must I forever be a victim to some mechanism of injustice?

Time to feed the pet children. Partially ready for Drinker's West, not going to Arch street in this deserted city morning, my dark blue slacks deodorized in the bathroom, a notation that I will be mocked for my sneakers and my cap, if I wear either. I like my cap, makes me look like a golfing troll. Wink. My father's brother is dying, by the way, and I feel guilty for my not so subtle realization that my senile uncle has been useless for a long time. Marie would kill me, literally, if she knew what I tell you. And just in case I do not have the time tomorrow, happy new year, a phrase so innocuous I should not write it. Medicare has spent thousands and thousands on my uncle's poor quality of life, and inversely destroyed my own by making it impossible to get technology I need to be healthy, happy, which equally suggests I may not be manic, only being driven to it.