Hayfever In A Fog

Australia aroused special doubt. --Tatyana Tolstaya, my favorite Tolstoy relative.

I came on actually to mine Google on Ryan O'Neal, vaunted cancer patient and parent of disabled son, and wound up pitching to a small zine on FB because I knew no other way, and I begin to get upset with how I am supposed to interface with media platforms if no one is using email anymore, and here I am, whining, wondering how I am going to prove what I told CATO about my thesis on this movie, the hot and sexy Driver. Cato no doubt said "Say what?" It was not a formal pitch. I just told them cripple with the brain that wouldn't die might be on her way. 

I hate Niume, honestly, and I've been filing my buttocks on sandpaper to write decent posts, and still hate them. No, they have done nothing. Yes, they have better collaborative bloggers than I, few, and far, between, and I hate them anyway, because I cannot write 900 penny posts for 10 dollars, but my mind is writing them. Just who the holy fuck do I think I am? Christ. Cripple of the 500 things before she strokes, fractures her fused thick hytonia clenched feet, stained with waste and dead skin, coliform dead skin. My aunt looks horrible. She doesn't carry her weight as well as my mother did, and I ponder how well she's walking on that knee joint. My cousin is just as obese, but freaked out that her baby boy might have had a chronic disease due to involuntary head movements-- this is your attitude about conditions, and yet, you all want me to be nice, civil, applying community standards. I did not get into this with my cousin. Yes, I get it. Mothers freak until the kid is eighteen, and then carry survivors's guilt if the child dies from an OxyFendayl overdose, or gang war, but still. You don't abort us, but if we fuck up a few times? Oh.

Any ambulatory person not homeless would have suicided at this point in my personal circumstances, pointing toward my ambivalent relationship with Tolstoy's messianic arc enveloping the agony of soul.