Pleurisy Lamps

darkness darkness, be my friend

Your favorite dowager never cared much for the British invasion, outside of Elton. I still love the music and lyrics of the pianist and Taupin. That cannot be excised. And I personally believe that Captain Fantastic is a masterpiece equal to any other musical genre, but regrettably, I have to close the valve on EJ's seductive fluidity. It is not so much the politics of culture wars. I knew the entertainer was homosexual when I was 13, on the ward, clinging to my sole pop idol. Today, at 54, I'm psychologically too brittle for the pathos of the duo's best work: "I used to know this old scarecrow," as an obese New Yorker I hung with, intermittently, remarked, is a ballad to determine movement toward cessation as well as catharsis. I can no longer let myself go, for the chords or the falsetto the geek "can no longer do." And I have to keep my distance not to get abusive with old faggy. Just the way it is. But The Stones? People who idolize Mick and Keith are sorry, shriveled souls. Scorsese and I would grimace at each other across our egos, if I had access to  him. We'd quarrel, Martin and I, which I acknowledge is idiosyncratic, given the shared heritage. He is a great artist, Martin, but I'd eviscerate him with pleasure. The Rolling Stones aren't even worth the effort of fending off my narcissism, my terror of losing control of my life. I took a NSAID, to clear some hay fever, and feel easier, avoiding my hard work despite looming deadlines. 
I will not, under any circumstances, go back to a home for cripples. I will use violence, and intense suffering, to avoid it, even if conservatives like Toomey feel that my intelligence will need to accept it, eventually, I will not, and instead force my death, whatever my sin against Catholicism in so doing. or even as a secular breach. Suicide is tough, difficult. Not even depression truly strives for it, within eroding positive love of life, but there are worse things, and institutions like Inglis House are vestiges of fascism we accept as medically necessary. However brutal. I do not truly know if such homes are legitimate forms of capitalism as Adam Smith envisioned the economic system, but it is one area where I reject it, ruthlessly. People are better off dead, whether or not they feel clinging to life under such regimented circumstances is their choice. Euthanasia can be equally as profitable, and though I mock bowl headed junkets like Brian Jones, illustrating my conservative streak against addiction's gleeful destruction, an overdose is a bright and shiny little glory against such suffering I case managed and lived as a little girl. If I have to incite a criminal act against certain cruel minorities lobbing hate crimes with impunity, so be it. I will not go back, and will die on my feet. I don't understand your bipedal rhythm, and cannot convey that lack to you: my dream persona races wind and leaves on wheels, or always looks up at her father, dead grandmother, fat slut of a mother's tortured soul. Intellectually, I get the mechanics, one foot in front of the other, the efficiency of two legs, but even on crutches, walking into class hoping that Jerry would note the distinction, walking is not part of my innate wiring. Perhaps that makes me diabolically clever, clever enough to be stunning, and within this, lies an embedded rationale for eugenics. Another day.