Chocolate on the Graham

I am going to open this softly and then take a hard pugilistic stance of the sort that drives my followers down, but not because I am raw, not this morning. If my tongue in cheek allusion to Reid implies that I've stepped in dog shit, part of my edginess  in relation to it is my magnified dependence. In September 17, I was still doing what I wanted when I wanted, like an ambulatory individual, and now I can't, which points to the gravity of my failure in approaching an ad hoc wheelchair vendor. I am entirely dependent on Shane, as I now brand him, and this magnifies the transgression due to erotic need, magnifies that I have less time for research, for getting my files unlocked, for writing, for getting out, and despite my privileged nepotism speeding the construction of my chair from Mainline, I may never be able to cut my attendant care again, transfer myself freely, and my dedicated aide isn't going to save me, regardless of his unwillingness to put me entirely in my place. He should. I told him some stark and ugly things about myself, and yesterday, finally, he pointed out one of my sentiments about the inner city was racist, and in my curious way, I was glad to get that rise, as I told him as early as digging out Debbie Reynolds that I was, and this is what made me laugh that particular morning: I really have embraced diametric contractions, and though I don't enjoy framing it in this fashion, my avatar for this account has merged to my personality. I have always believed that black men were easier to sleep with, I'm mainly right, and my dissonance broke the pain of my desire as I studied his face before he left Sunday, and yet it still felt like we we're exploring our prospects, which is insane. The gulf between us is too wide, and I'd never be able to cross it whether he is really considering it somewhere in the future or deflecting for the sake of keeping me gratified. Had I actually and forcefully kissed him that first evening after, that might have been the thunderbolt, but I seem to have caught myself, punctured the attraction. Next to one of his former girlfriends, I am moldy spam on a plate, reverting back to myself with a shock. The view of her looks flung me away and it hurt. I'm never that you know, sexy. He only revealed her as men and women reveal pasts, in exploration, but the blow was mortal, maybe, but what really went with it was salvation. The man may be keeping me afloat, doing a damn good job, but I cannot expand outward if I cannot lessen the bond between us, right now, impossible. There is nothing here for me to hope for. I see him as a man, care for him, and maybe do love him, but I reduce him, and myself to the lowest common denominator, a spaz on nigger waltz, and in the mouth of Nick Gillespie, Reason's editor at large, that's sad.
But so are the images Josh Groban grafts to his progressive tolerance. "Don't Give Up" is nothing less than a page lifted from Faulkner's Light In August. Joanna Burden's destructive moral guilt is fatal in her attempt to appropriate Joe Christmas.