Tomasi

Increasing soy, legume, and flaxseed consumption can help with estrogen deficiency.

Since a part of me hates them, I have contemplated leaving the list once again. I hate them for being dry tawdry snits. I hate them because even if I kill myself to publish a paper in the Henry James Review nothing I accomplish will make me a colleague. I do not relish being addressed as "my dear," and this set me off to breach their ostentatious restraint; yet my entire Internet life has been defined by disease impaired sometimes courteous Jamesians, even if I hate them more for a disabled identity tagging me even within a virtual community, on the fucking list, whose only tangible cohesion is that group members are centralized and disseminated through Creighton. I'm being unfair and unkind, and the unkindness amounts to this:

I wish the Munchkin had left me alone. More than that. I wish my reticence had not lowered my guard with the girl. I did not want her friendship, and still, I waded in at low tide. It is true I raised my drawbridge later, when I found myself engaging the shared experience plot points, not doing myself any favors with it, but it was foolhardy, allowing this familiarity, after all my years of accrued folly. And let me make a distinction: I am not condemning the *tells* Louise gave me about herself. The brittle bones, my inferences about her social isolation. I am condemning me for getting personal with a fan. She might have been perceptive and had other fine qualities as a reader, but JD Salinger wasn't entirely off key in his exasperation with idol worshipers. The exchange has been consigned to the attic, but I cannot afford to fall into similar traps in the future.

I am not giving up coffee, as I wonder what in L'Wren Scott's financial difficulties was worth hanging herself over. Presume that Jagger was a demigod dick. She had to know that. Her story makes me wonder about those of us who endure, because if it wasn't for the nightmare of my utter failure in the Brotherly Hood, I'd throw in the fucking towel. Annoyed with myself for borrowing Jared Diamond from the Prime lending library. Yes, I can give him back, a public intellectual who doesn't necessarily appeal to me, but Amazon indicated I have to wait a week before I can borrow again.

A small part still loves the James in whom I find solace, and yet asserting myself to say "goodbye Dr. Cox and Greg consider my scolding as a buried axe battle," this means nothing; it is entirely irrelevant. I do not really hate them. Their emblematic genteel lifestyle is beyond the acquisition of my resources. Not that they're wealthy by modern gilded age standards, but they are more secure in economic terms than I'll ever manage in the fewer productive years I've left.