Maybe I'd be lucky and not die at all. Maybe I'd be a cripple all my life ... maybe I'd be paralyzed and have to sit in a wheelchair. The Tropic of Cancer, almost in the middle
Like I need another of these.
In the secret space of my callous self, I had always wanted to be free of pet rearing so I could give my notice and die a hard tragic death on the asphalt, and now I'm nearly there, but for kimmy, whom I'm giving a hard time, because my guilt has the corrosive power of destruction. I have a soft spot for all cats, but I loved my boys, and could not give any of them a good death, though Oliver got the best, and I had time to grieve with him. Educated liberals, when not taking human pet attachments seriously, lampoon them, and I fully comprehend the impetus, yet realize, as most feline lovers do, conspiratorially, that cats are superior to humans, and I miss my boys, putting all my energies into a fantasy which is cerebral, almost finished, and has me torn. Upload it to Amazon as a single, or not? I have not made up my mind, envious of Henning Mankell's ability to put his balls on a string. There are female authors who can do the same, but not like men.
Talisman is almost 20 years old, and Manning isn't afraid to kick himself in the ass, have a little fun, and have a relevant message about how our lack of ethics ripples outward; he makes it look easy, within a relatively simple meta-fictional framework, and it isn't. I blocked this shit without a word, increasingly disaffected.
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