Now Gustave is spastic's idea of an unbeatable frontrunner, and I may vote next November simply for the sake of using him as a write in, a crocodile too smart to fall for human entrapment and too tough to die. Sounds like a good December marriage proposal too, now that I'm thinking about it, too tired for anything more than facetious flippancy in the moment. All things being relevant, I am on my way to sunken mattress from Sears and Riverside daybed Number One all the way back to 1994. Dear old dad dumped me from Diamond Park-- Trudy Richardson was probably in the public school system learning her exemplary evasive skills-- yes, a back-handed cut, and if black mothers want my advice please lose your taste for this German derivative. Seriously. "Trudy" denotes an airhead silliness in a girl-- and my mother had to come rescue me the next day. I slept in an armchair and couldn't go to work, if this gives my current viewers any indication why I'm so obsessive about moving on.
I intend to be here at Joe's Coffee for the WiFi access early Friday, with my normal apologetic stance for being a hindrance. I don't know how long my upgrades will take and I may use my pouty invalid expression to get special treatment. I will bring hard copy reading, maybe real paper and real pen, weighing how much of my money I'm going to hand over for bribery purposes. I'll tweet to confirm, rather conflicted as to whether I should bifurcate and trade my older kindle in and just keep the Paperwhite (sigh). Ereaders are now essential brain extensions and I cannot live without them. The two I have cost me about five hundred for the pair. Hard to imagine now.
I cannot give up. I will rematriculate. Fuck building managers, and with that trumpet, that is all to which my pretension aspires to this evening.
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