Calipers for Endoscopy

spastic_dowager: "I'm going to give you hell."
Brian Sims, state legislator: "I can take it."

Ah, cowardly troll. Puffy face will only get her so far anymore, the contravene of pasty plaque to the brazier definition of eloquence in Jeremy Irons. I did not think of that, but could see Sims doing Irons in a remake of Forster's Maurice. Who would not want to fuck Jeremy Irons in his prime, with that caviler elegance?

Tim Keller took 4 pics of me and his shoe leather boss, and I realized, this yesterday evening, that I no longer count among the human race; it hit me with a callow thud, in Trinity Center. The only people who count are those who pay property taxes. State wards like myself either get killed for non-compliance or remain subservient. I did retail handshakes, and the progressives in public policy didn't realize I wanted to rip his young squeaky cute face off for urging me to go back on Medicaid: "the waiver is gone now with the ADA." I made nice with the Haitian and his co-worker at Dunkin Donuts, since I look like welfare shit. The Haitian jilted me prior to my hire of Karina, but I took his number again-- just in case, and I need packers. My inner voice is screaming "Tony Stiles please save me!" and Tony, well, he is the real thing. I only get this stout palsied body extracted, until the next escalation, the next crisis, and Tony babe, I am giving my notice next week. Marie Varenas will be resurrected, miraculously, so she can come throttle her niece. My father telephones like a chastened penitent and I ignore him; I'm in my 53rd year, always the figurative train wreck, and I've convinced myself of my own rhetoric, utterly convinced I'll manage to survive, though perhaps I secretly relish combat with police brutality, and I truly throbbed for Jeremy Irons, the Merchant Ivy extraordinaire, a footnote in time. David Cronenberg, whose name is almost synonymous with human will extinguished by ravenous appetite which consumes itself, probing cavities. I have deliberately avoided posting about Dead Ringers. This film is one of the few exceptions where my aberrant voice, so marginal, merges with industry critics. Jeremy Irons is so deft, so subtle, you foam at the mouth with natural lubricant, but the actor in his time, in the zenith of his skill, is no more, a retrospective shadow, diffident, not sure why he picked acting. You want to fuck that hauteur. "Presby Homes has perpetrated hate crimes against me." Puffy face pouting red, body flexing eyes welling with tears. Sims is rather attractive and I was mildly aroused. I am going to survive this, right?

Perhaps not. He gave me permission to use the photo. I need a job. Dreamland. .