Thursday evening I bent over to tend the feeding bowl and felt the cardiovascular tumorous cancer shift all those of Southern European heritage know, and spent 12 hours Friday evening into Saturday morning unable to sit up as I've always done. 18 years online sinking into oblivion and the slacker entitlement pass for competency of the black working class, making the assumption that osteo-arthritis is closing in; I hate the cadence of the black vernacular, that which linguists merely deconstruct, making a mental note that Trudy Richardson, dispatching her nigger nanny status of forces deployment, will launch more attacks next week. She'll win. My family is too incapacitated and no one else gives a shit. I despise Philadelphia's sludge dialectic, allowed myself to be destroyed by it, my material destitution a sad testament. I really don't understand how to join a wifi network to open my phone, and I need someone to walk me through it before my impending stroke. Today I was fine, drugs, reduced psychosomatic stress.
Acceptance is what it must be, but corruption has beat me down like a dog. I don't really know how hard I am. Hard enough to get arrested for being vile to black women, probably in the affirmative. Little Mussolini playing spin the bottle with her piss. People kept holding umbrellas over me Thursday. I ignored them (black men) or lost them (white men) until I had a chat with a nice cop under one of our many commercial district vestibules, growing weaker and weaker, ready to give notice in a spur, surely the sign of impaired affect.
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