Monday, October 2, 2017

The Pooch, with a twist

Are we willing to wash the feet of our neighbors?--holy Thursday


I tweeted that I was lying back down at three am, and did, but got up again immediately, embarrassed that I was caught by such a powerful stressor that I barely had time to pivot. It is not that I do not care about my intestinal battles; my esteem is tied into a good transfer, but I flaunt incontinence as a rebuff, the consequence of my survival. I am trying to challenge you all about this. My official statement to the bull bitches downstairs asserted I would vacate the premises tomorrow but given my quadriplegia, would need time to extract my possessions. Once I roll out, I am not entirely certain I am getting back in. I cannot afford it but may need a motel for a night, and thus far, bathed my feet, dialed the usual network of eliminations, all I could, for this morning. I read Ross's opine on Hefner's overstayed decline, and I am not sure where my recently acquired shrugs of depreciation come from, but was Playboy that big a deal? And my father's girlie mags of three decades back made the Trumpism of today possible? Ross is doing what we all do with this curious tool of the sign, the hieroglyphs we all recognize according to the geography of linguistic development, but the Harvard veneer gives it too fine a twist.




Nothern's straight forward outcry in the face of our repetitive cataclysms is my preferred arrhythmia, and no, I do not have a serial killer collection, but it was mere coincidence, in real time, while the Vegas massacre was happening, that I was watching footage of beautiful Norway caught in Breivik's grip, and the backstory is puzzling. If he displayed psychopathy at three years of age, why was he left with mother? And if the EU is so restrictive with firearms, how could Breivik acquire them? His attack on his own countrymen makes no sense, neo-Nazi or not, as I am probably not long for the world, without any friends, sustainable supports. This has a great deal to do with what section 202 eroded in my life. I have nothing, no contacts, not so much as an old college buddy. Social media, twitter, at least, may give me contours, a certain familiar pattern. Nothing else.

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