Theories of Talking Up

I have applied for so many writing positions I fear my objectives lagged in an instance or two, and my world weariness is age and spirit both. If you want to ask why I did not get up again after Cecil gave me the usual cyber lecture about my deliberately inappropriate vaginal lewd observation to get his attention, I had taken it to heart, being violated by a lesbian with whom I had allowed familiarity, whether I liked her or not, then Frank came along, but would not drive to the restaurant when Josie made an effort to make amends. I liked neither her nor Virginia, and would have preferred dissecting modern Catholicism with Cecil. By 05, I was no longer after sexual encounters for themselves. I just wanted a man to talk to, and still do, but I'm broken, like a marginalized figure in Dickens, the woman out of Bleak House maybe, a volatile eccentric. I know Josie knows she did something that crossed the line, and felt remorse, but she left a vacuum filled by minority dysfunction I can no longer carry, including a Verizon technician who kissed me, fixing my line. I no longer have much to spare for these minority filler games, too tired to go to the store, but what of it. I've considered A Libertarian-- note the caps-- and no, not Jeffrey Tucker either, as even if he was free, we both have a month, don't like to yield, and I am not keen on domestic violence killings. Scandalous, but idiotic, too many traces, even if contracted out, that sort of thing. At 55 narratives are usually decoded in accurate assessment. The locals are too young, too technical, and the few reactionaries my age have back injuries. The only thing keeping me alive is hate, that I want to dance their graves, but, if I went after Linda, truly played that card, I'd face Israeli wrath, and using my condition as an excuse to destroy perversion will not alter the landscape when it comes to dykes and mind games. The easiest enemy, Trudy, is a sorry excuse for a black female. I just want her and Presby out of my life, watching her age from a girl who laughed into an obstinate figurine of fecal brawn. I do, literally, hate what she is and can probably have her transferred, if not removed, but Joanne has little hope for Joanne, herself, even if she prints her notice and calls Uber. I cannot count on a lucky break, someone who sees me and can offer a haven, but it is a fine Sunday.