Wireless in a Snow Shower

I'd heard there was a secret chord
That David played and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
Well, it goes like this
The fourth, the fifth, the minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah--Pentonix

I suppose, presuming I have regular viewers, like the dwindling audience for daytime soaps, that you would rebut me by pointing out that a minority paraprofessional from the hood cares for my welfare should make me feel guilty, as my conscience doesn’t give a flying fig, not that I do not think said paraprofessional isn’t a nice guy, of course he is. I simulate the ingrained Italian generosity learned from my family on my childhood knee, and he contributes in return, in this charming interstice of the village of the damned, but it is an act I am within relative parameters, able to keep up behind my otherwise world-weary sinuses. Earlier last week, in grieving for his previous patient, he gripped my right thigh, covered by solid gray sheeting, to emphasize the man’s edema, and I felt sexually aroused. That happens, as old as Lady Chatterly’s Lover, the nurse sexualizing the regressive grooming of the crippled husband (when I read Lawrence I resist the vulnerability his cadence demands, not my favorite canonical author) and as recent as the marginal industry effort, me before you, a genuine triumph in cripland film I should feel obligated to view for this account. Perhaps I’ll invite Dr. Dorwart to write a guest review instead, to rest these world weary Italian eyes: I am not going to fuck the nigger five years my junior. It was the mere incidental grip on my thigh. We’re supposed to go to Dunkin Donuts this morning to update the OS for my forlorn second generation Apple 5s, pondering my reluctance to allow ATT to turn off my plug in, adding the expense of a new phone, but if I cannot trust the hotspot to ping?

Victoria Wharton is actually causing me more grief than the kind-hearted African I callously denigrate, but this is as much padre’s fault as my own. He sent her to me. Without Facebook I would not have suspected her mental instability, and was reluctant to reconnect her to daddy, but did so she would stop texting me. My sister informed me Sunday evening that Victoria is a threat to my father’s welfare (drug swiping, etc) and the dowager’s lioness roared. I let the woman have it and threatened her with arrest, due to slipping on my own gullibility, my father’s as well. 

He hired Victoria. Eldest daughter presumed Victoria was reliable, steady, but instead, is another episode of white trash feigning a low middle class. Exactly what fantasy of personal grace and demeanor do I reside in? My heart always breaking on my father’s rat pack stylized imitation, ladies’ man to the end, twisting my love on the rack, the daughter he abandoned, submitted to medical repair, again, and again, and again. First love of my life, he represses what a bloody disappointment I am, first born, fitting virtual reality is no longer removed from the lives we live.