BIn closing the distance between my psyche still flying under Google's all powerful radar, I actually emailed the recombinant Jayne Anne because Karina Klaus, the fucking white trash I hired, nearly killing my apartment manager whom I am still ready to rumble into an illegal situation over it, this Karina, the Craigslist swiss cheese Air Jordan brain, fucked around with my contributor copies while I was taking a piss and destroying a 60 dollar flea market skirt I bought from a minority vendor. The only thing I have in this world are my contributor copies, and so I overrode any self-effacement and emailed the once libertine southern debutante. I asked her if she could find the magazine, copy my poem, and send it to me. I was terse, not even offering a salutation. I then emailed her at Rutgers again, claiming I found my copy. and this, in point of fact, is not the case, so I suppose I should now wait, quietly, and see what this woman, over whose picture I destroyed a Poets &Writers issue so I could tape her profile to my door in the hard core badlands 15 minutes down Race, will say. I know Karina is a soft-shelled crab. I know she is in Oregon and whoever the dickwad is that she's fucking, I hope unwittingly compensates me by devastating her with a future episode of abandonment.
How vicious?
What in the name of my long, abusive, spastic life do I have but my work? My anxiety over a future bi-nervous vulnerability to an unscrupulous feminine manipulator is misguided. The next ambulatory individual who fucks with my life, regardless of race or sexual orientation, is going to experience what it is to have a Roman assassin reborn. No one gives a fuck. I know. This is the age of social media, and I may not be a quadriplegic as scorched as a Precious in triplicate. Karina tends to believe we're friends. I am also going to blow my stack with Google, live, in fairly short order, about monetizing. Me and the mighty Silicon giant, round two. Smell a service suspension round the bend?
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