To
be reduced to thinking wedging a ten dollar plastic feminine urinal around
fancily sewn napkin paper with wadding is an accomplishment is already a
significant spiral downward, and the dowager is up very late because her
distressed colon will be the death of her, as an hour after the temporary Jevs attendant
left, things went to town, even as I buy her food I cannot afford. Why? Given
what you read, it must seem strange, but these people get slave wages, finally
having my hair washed, and I have no other responsibilities. I may be hostile
to urban black humility and low self-esteem, but these people have nothing,
most of them, trash television, much the same way franchise authors and screen
writers sell junk bonds on quantum theory. Third Contact does not fall into my category of “flawed but intriguing”. It
is the worst tripe I’ve ever seen produced in Britain, and it goes as follows:
a suicidal psychiatrist begins losing his patients to suicide, then discovers
they pick some kind of alternate memory and a scientist sends them to this
particular quantum field of happily ever after. The conflicts in the plot
involve his disbelief, and then he joins them, in a garden with his wife, who
in this world, sustained a trauma which is ambiguous, perhaps a miscarriage.
Brian Greene consoles us on television, poking fun at himself with alternate
universe theories, because the laws of nature
tend to repeat themselves, but this is tantamount to asserting that the particle
accelerator and Vatican canonical law are neck and neck in the same rat race,
the same quest for immortality.
I
have referred to this before on Blogger, but the sole happy moment in my life
was when John Tassoni snuck up on me in the dormitory hall with his freezing
hands wrapping me in a bear hug, his intent being merely to startle me, add me
into his cache of flirtations because the little boy inside the boxer wants to
be loved. He had no idea I had fallen in love with him, not then, not there,
and had I kept my stupid mouth shut, perhaps I would have never found myself on
Race Street with a load of shit in my pubic hair. I do not believe, for the
tenth of a second that the God particle may exist, that in an alternate
universe he and I married and made an intellect tag team while I’m the radiant
mother of his children. For all the complexities of the technology and the
functional equations, the human super monkey always needs a venue for hope
springs eternal, while my sister, middle child princess, walls herself in her
home of denial, never making more than pro forma gestures of sympathy, and I,
the invalid of his issue, perhaps the fault of my mother’s turbulent body,
ripping out of her birth canal, disgusted and as weary as he, commit to doing
the whole funeral in hostile territory. Maybe it is the stress, the probiotic,
but if I cannot regain some of the function I still had in September, I am
done. My stepmother died a horrible death, trapped in a terrible, if not horrifying
marriage, to a father I’ve loved so strongly because he’s incapable of being
emotionally supportive. He throws money at the issue, I throw money at
impoverished minorities with whom I want nothing to do, taking small victories
in having vanquished the Muslim’s prostrate ass in my face, and now I have to
go make a mess. Can’t lie in it; not going to get much sleep.
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