Annexing the Crimea

I ain't really here tonight, thus Blogger can sigh with relief that I am too tired for targeted insinuations, as my formerly transgendered intimate who is only of local ADAPT notoriety, is a living corpse, and not worth the trouble. I wasn't going to discuss Bruce's transition, precisely for the reasons Kathleen chooses to elucidate. If a resident with terminal cancer thinks I am a pretentious drama queen, but doesn't have the wit to make that zing, I think an aging athlete needs money, and I think this because the evidence suggests that biological males and females who see themselves as members of the opposite sex know this at an early age, and I grew up with Bruce Jenner's ass in his jockey shorts, and never heard a peep out of him that he really wanted breasts and his penis removed, not until reality television; this type of sensationalism leaves a bad taste in my mouth, the shallow strobes of bread and circuses from which the peasants never quite divorce themselves, the need for titillation. I am loathe to add to it, regardless of my peevish arteries which now hold these individual needs, self-interest, in circumspect reserve. Caitlyn certainly had no problem with her male identity when it came to the decathlon; Erik von Schmettering is much less glamorous, and is shied away from, welts on its arms, the persona all but vacated, neither quite male nor female, inciting a piteous revulsion. My ex is right that I waste my reserves letting this eat me to death, but I am merely reverting to form: in 94 I utilized Erik for emotional solace, and it was a mistake, and my pain no longer has access to comfort, sucking it out of the atmosphere. I'm pondering the magnificent energies of Ed Harris.

His talent to be Beethoven, his ability to become Jackson Pollack, or a bisexual novelist with AIDS in Cunningham's already backdated novel, is nothing short of extraordinary, and I'd like to fuck the man in appreciation, which doesn't mean he in turn would oblige, but my finesse meter is squandered this fine Sunday morning, wasting what little I have in my all consuming need for change. What's it getting me?