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It did not take me long to lose my battle with the last of my relatively fresh credit line from Capital One to upgrade to the Vuse Vibe tank, which comes as close to poisoning myself to death as can be imagined, in my masochistic kinks for cherry diddles, the poignancy of Ken Wahl's Reagan era physique aside, why him, why it hurt to view him in a show for which I never cared, why he responded, why I want to fuck him to prove my irregular clitoris can still respond to masculine intercourse? Intrinsically, what I've blogged is the truth, I do not desire a lesbian partnership, but climaxing past the raw sewage of my trauma, past ugly women deviation, this is increasing in difficulty, not that it matters with my urine sore cunt.
Fifty three was my break year, no doubt there, no rejuvenation, I simply couldn't get myself out of here in time; I'm sinking, whatever my newly wounded friction with Joan Tarshis, not even entirely sure what happened, why I even sounded off in the first place, two old and broken women, destroyed progressives, one a rabid animal, the other keeping faith, both milkweed Caucasians, soured milk, after a fashion. The link between us, however tenuous through social media, mattered to me, whether or not Cosby was violating her when I was six, being internalized as a childhood hate crime. It is her fault, in part, that she wasn't wise enough to utilize a chaperone. This was the sixties, and celebrities of his stature had inflated egos, much as my obstinacy resulted in essentially surviving a muted genocide, with now so little to show for it. Pain, raw sewage, mitigating with liquid nicotine vapor. I don't know what her mechanisms are, other than classic liberal discernment, akin to my faux relationships, adopting Stiles as my little brother. If I scrounged up bus fare to seek him out in Nebraska the poor fellow would probably shit himself, as this indicates the degree of how much I in turn have absorbed affectation: Look at what I'm writing about, in the dead zone of my section 202 decline, the headaches from inhaling? From poor nutrition coffee diet, the weight of my fatigue, pushing myself to write through it and amazed I've gotten this far.
I opened Jawbone, to take a break from the rest, for a bit. I don't know how long, maybe a week, maybe less. I have to really focus later and put the housing grievance against Presby together, however much more it is going to shrink the willpower I have left, but willpower for what?
I have nothing in my life, none of the things people live for, even the disabled, which is why Bryan Fuller's ideas about dead alive are so telling, in a strange way, though he keeps failing, but failing with a difference, since he understands a medium to which I'm inherently hostile, to say the least.
1:33 AM, Monday
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