Terminus, foie gras

"I saw a bunch of scared actors afraid of losing their jobs."-- John Corbett, who manages to make me curl, pleasantly

It was gratifying to see the late Patty Duke Astin in the instantly forgettable 05 Bigger Than The Sky, its two hour run time consuming my salmon pate preparation, a steady diet of which usually revives my energy, but not today, not even with a thousand milligram caplet swallowed beneath it. The amount of caffeine I have absorbed, the real shift in humidity as the summer season shifts into full gear, this accentuates my plaque build up, my arthritis, and the strange irritation in my rectum which has been and remains not part of my normal biological narrative since I allowed the late Frank access to it. A former aide named Kisha assured me that Frank's enthusiastic anal experimentation would not have done anything harmful to me. She is probably correct, as my intimacy with him ended within the first year and six months of our relationship, and any infection from his hazardous body would have done more to me by now; it is, nonetheless, a basic truism, before 2006 my colon in and of itself wasn't raising the potential of malignancy. The tendency towards polyps runs in the family, as well

In mid 2016, I understand the situational irony of actually being dead alive, almost as well as Duke comprehends, in either her maudlin or satirical modes, her emotional pendulum swings-- my mind and its acuity still relatively intact, but knowing the end is in sight, giving into it despite my libertarian exhilaration. Just getting through the day, making myself a meal, grinding what remains of my occlusion to get through my ligaments, breathing shallow, let alone driving this battered vehicle about my limited range, or throwing a load of colors in the wash, is doing me in, much like the labor of the Comtrex freight, protesting its heavy metal elements on the rails.

I was rather stupid to allow myself to get drawn in to the Yabberz community, and I'm extracting myself from it, reluctantly, true, like a puss-faced toddler. There are some sharp witted users who habituate the virtual dynamic of Golden State liberal hypocrisy, but the best of them visit infrequently; not all of them may have mental health issues, but one of the return users, harleyboy66, is an exact replica of the clientele I used to case manage, possibly dangerous under the right provocation. I can tell because of his lack of coherence. He was the wrong person to be having an online discussion with about quadriplegia and ideation. I am not quite certain what I'm going to *do* with Mike and Melissa's volatile maven. I agree with a Romanian critic that Yabberz has an unpleasant political miasma to it, but on the other hand, as a blogging platform, it does have its uses, and as I'm not under commission, I can still keep my account active enough to experiment with ideas, if I can keep a lid on threatening the faux liberals, as well as the true left, with total annihilation. If anything, Yabberz has contributed to my own polarization, and I am still not particularly fond of peripheral views to which a Cyclops is limited. And since I have forgotten my fatigue, obviously I need to be true to myself, and work, in the time I have, work.

I also want to scream at Tony Stiles to steal a hydraulic van and come rescue me from an African American punk majority, if only as a charitable contribution. Perhaps I should contact the Koch brothers.