I only logged on an hour ago to look up the dates on gen x, and I fit either as a young boomer, like my aunt, who is ten years my senior, or a gen elder. It is stupendous to consider that I'm both. When I crossed the 300 follower mark on social media I knew it would drop, given I tread dangerous waters.
I don't care. That is one primary difference between Cheryl and I, the successful memoirist who interacted with me 13 years ago as a P&W subscriber, our only bridge to each other being her heroin needle. She pulled herself back with a mercurial irreverence in her authorial voice which has earned the woman her middle brow redemption, and I am genuinely happy for her recognition, but meant what I tweeted to her about posing for a photograph with Oprah.
Never, never and a day could I ever be so conventional for the sake of sales. My notoriety, if it comes, is up through the dark side. But the true tragedy of this country: Cheryl Strayed can milk recovering addiction. I snort nothing, probably will never recover substantial gainful activity, and my minority building manager humiliates me with impunity, and any whites coming to my defense would face the culturally ingrained African deceit. Trudy Richardson has 50 variations on her rationalization for attacking me. There is no door number three with the real reason: I signed my own death warrant with this rental corporation when I was all of 23.
I never realized.
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