I feel the unholy need to write in a string of prose poem expletives, undoubtedly losing half of my twitter followers if I bellow "Jesus Fucking Christ" over and over like Quasimodo in the breach. I finished my fucking article and hate spec, flagging the idea that carbon monoxide may take care of my problems for me, I'm leaving Race Street in five weeks, see me running? I laid myself down at five, transferring with no fear on that strange energy of age and death, how can one evening it amounts to nothing, my old self in place, and the next, anxiety? I cannot depend on a welfare aide 24/7, but my heart raced, and up I came again; finish the piece, my shins strangely flush, and I'm off the leash. It is done, but I have many things to do, as if I really think the GOP is going to save me in my one-sided email transmissions to Kathleen Parker. Why do I type to Kathleen Parker when my idea is only yeast and soda? She is a moderate conservative keeping her opines on tempo, and I am a banshee of Italian melodrama mewing to Wapo people. Everyone fills the space. Now I need sleep.
On a side note, Fox movies finally ran The Driver again and I watched it very carefully for another spec piece I haven't breathed about to anyone, begging God to help me stay true to myself. What has fresh air felt like these last two weeks?
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