The
age of my technology makes all this more than a bit frustrating. Friday evening
I was able to sync, and sampled an Amazon original, Absentia, which opens with Stana Katic in a water tank, or being
punched, or stabbing a journalist in hospital, but this morning, despite cold
reboots, I cannot get the hotspot to ping, wonder if it is the anti-virus
software. I’d like to lose the USB plug in. It keeps my phone bill high, as the
black man who has based his economic decisions on my assurances drags me by my
legs in the morning like a fucking sack of turnips, helps me sit on a Jay
cushion far too high while the Depends wadding gnaws my rectum for the hours I
sit here.
When
I lose a long time follower like Justin Murphy, the assistant professor kindred
Catholic libertarian, yes, I wince, but caution myself I cannot ascribe reasons
for my account removal to his feed. I was going to keep his on mine, may
restore him later, but I give very little time to my followers, even failing to
recall that Mikaela’s tag line is a far superior resume to mine, and half the
time, I do not know what Justin is tweeting, and so I did not rise above the
law of an eye for an eye as proscribed in Deuteronomy, and dropped Justin and
his specious queries about weed and mass, even as he hit like for a couple of
my responses, which seems inconsistent, a drop with continuing validation.
Trust me, I know imitating Mikaela’s trained anchor pleasantness would improve
my social media ratings, but is Mikaela being hauled off a generic hospital bed
by a minority who failed in manufacturing at one corporate plant after another, from food processing to retail?
I cannot overcome the cruelty of medical socialism, in my 57th year,
plagued by nightmares of being hauled away by force by a bevy of females
similar to the scurrying bitches of VNA, to another institution for imbeciles,
while the director puts his hand down my blouse, strangles me with a forcible
kiss, as I protest repeatedly that I’ve been matriculated and educated, hauling
myself awake much like Stana in her fast moving collision of a lead, it is
still nonetheless a variation on my end game, which my readers assure
themselves they are helpless to prevent. Going out with a time trigger bomb
wired to this power chair, punishing my posture and all but strip mining me
helpless, doesn’t present me with that much of a dilemma. March For Our Lives
cannot de-weaponize the anguish of a life bowed over the screw.
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