"The mess has become an old friend."-- a French actress protecting her champion
It is uncanny, when biological rhythms themselves attune to conscious attachment, wake the body without the convenience of the alarm on the device, wakes you in time, despite the familiar eruption of a shameful rectal attack, which is oddly a relief, the battle with control, which is, however, transitioning into what will eventually kill, malady unknown, a sense of vertigo, starting way back at 36, getting significantly worse in the movement past your half century. Through the lens of Simenon, the animosity between the British and the French is utterly comprehensible, because the Franks have this insufferable sensibility of discretion, which would wisely serve us all ably if anyone paid the slightest attention. I don't, having dispensed with it all, but it is spring, I am sick, as usual, having warned myself about the container of almond butter, consumed not from greed. Desire for protein.
Just as Simenon manufactures a homosexual jurist in a dim interior, Maigret rents a room manufactures a faded damsel with broken wings, who thrives only when her spatial relation is rotated away from our fortunately stable sun, and has a love triangle which nearly results in a cop killing. I always try to give Maigret my rapt attention, but why Martinaud had to die for Mrs. Boris--- well being remains slightly puzzling. He was a loan shark of some sort, and the husband, soon to be a pensioner, was no guarantee. She fought Jules past fighting to save the man who valued her honor.
Affairs, much like homosexual secrets, often lead to mayhem as exemplified by the Fletcher case. To an American sensibility, Susan Chrzanowski was a culpable instigator in this locally sensational tragedy, and she paid a price. I could compare Susan to myself, but it is different. A sexually frustrated poet starved for passionate foreplay, setting herself up most of the time, is not the same thing as a presiding judge getting hot and heavy with a malcontent like Michael, who probably did shoot his wife. I base this on the fact that the parents noted Leann hated guns, and I'd never touch one myself, not even for an alpha male too good to be true. (This does not mean I am not joining the Libertarian Party. I am, but guns are dangerous in the immediate process of their utility, and I'm spastic; I'd never touch them.)
Yet we need love affairs. Need them to expose them. I support illicit sexual activity, in other words, without franchising equal treatment for homosexual orientation under the equal protection clause, making my principles rather difficult to defend, but I am going to be dead soon. I've never addressed whether or not I think a lesbian experiment on my part would have led to better sexual satisfaction. I have my reaction to feeling threatened on the one hand, and the passes, Eddie's molestation on the other, and not that it is entirely relevant, but I think not. I am not aroused by breasts, not particularly interested in deltas even of a better class act than mine (my anatomy is non standard) so no, I do not think a domestic arrangement similar to New Mobility's Josie Bysek is something I really desire and am fiercely repressing, despite my latch keys. I cannot stop other women from touching me inappropriately. It angers me, and I understand why those who engage in these sneak attacks are sometimes killed. We'll let Google measure that yardstick of an account in good standing, rolling my eyes.
To clear up any confusion, the company offered me an url for my Google plus account, and indicated I had *good standing". This company wearies, a little.
No comments:
Post a Comment