Rapport

Just orating to orate, off any semblance of a construct, I spoke to Karina, and insulted the woman, but she shall be returning, once, to fix whatever the fuck she did with my contributor copies, and after that? I am nearly at the end of my rope, and may need to take a few weeks off to throw all of my remaining energy into relocating, with my declining health being what it is. 

Before the seasonal festivities, Uber astonished me by affirming they can drive a power chair user, although my interior red flag said "This, I have to see..." If Karina can assist me with packing and an Uber driver can pick me up, all I would need is a destination, a breathing hole on the Siberian tundra, buying one of Gerard's watches, in the carcass of his lions.

He is like a Jamesian type, Depardieu, a musketeer with no king, grabbing at the scruff of the beast for being senile, alluding to my problems with little Vincento, always the most difficult, if most Egyptian, of my felines. Eleven, thin, gaunt, leaving surprises for this terse unhappy woman you read who needs a change in order simply not to die; kimmy, to drive the wedge further, has a fascination with the dung bags I put in the trash. I'm going to let them go soon, the children, because if I really want to leave niggerland (with its Korean influx), Vinne will have to be euthanized sooner than Oliver was.

Mio padre, serial abuser, is hovering over my stepmother, a wasted carcass herself with the rheumatoid arthritis leading into leukemia. She's dying. Father beats her as he raised his hand to my mother, and yet the eighty year old man clothes himself in the mortality of my mother's nursing school associate, Louise. My father shall lose his third and very crippled wife who thinks her very crippled stepdaughter should be put away, just as he lost his son, crying in my mother's arms. He didn't want Nicky to die' he didn't want Nicky to die, and Nicky died, wasted husk of pestilence, and Louise shall die as well. She has always been sickly, and I wonder if she ever cared for patients at all, with her red crumbled knuckles, repulsive lizard of a woman. My aunt Marie is smoking again and if she must she must but cost the state a fortune for her cancer. 

I don't deny. I'm simply caught, like the virile Gerard in his prime, between the frigid and the fulsome, screwed over by both. I'll too exclaim "Fuck your Schubert!" Forced to surrender without knowing how.