Kimmy's Mouse Under The Oven

Even if I wanted to go roll onto my mattress, I would not get much sleep. Discounting my bedridden helplessness throughout October and much of November, this is my fourth or fifth major accident to date in my ever encroaching bands of constriction, a brief speculation about being afflicted with Typhus flickers in my mind, one of the first really clever articles I ever read in The New Republic, or perhaps meningitis. He handles it as well as anyone can, my larger than life attendant who rolls in in the morning hyped on sugar and spouting astrology and numerology and I nod my head what the fuck do I care why do I want to sleep with this asshole? It is an interesting form of African American liberation heresy, reading the signs as a method to comprehend the happenstance of material events, though it is equally true I believe in my traits being born as an Aquarius, the water-bearer, and he seems to have a natural aptitude for this pseudo-science, the gargantuan I now characterize as Galahad. I have only treated him as well as I have, to date, for the temptation of his physique, and while my need has not quite been vanquished, I am too sore these days, we’ve grown too familiar to freshen it, argue like a couple on the wane. The evening I could have fully kissed him is bygone, so why am I milking it to the mundane even as Charles Krauthammer celebrates life to his last hours? “No no no,” I exclaimed at the super-phone Friday shortly before the traditional supper hour, rocking back and fourth in my equally supped up chair, and the boy man hugged me as he saw my face crater, but I am growing weary of nigger gallantry, no offense to the African who recently came to my feed. I am merely taking comfort in doing what I do, trolling to make people genuflect away from me. This is my coping mechanism, allowing red meat to diminish the fineness of my acumen, actually not so fine anymore, since words like colossal no longer readily spring to mind. And Charles is a colossus, larger than life, whether in effigy or as adversary or in alliance, the psychiatrist who jumped ship, abandoned faith in medical model classification to become the guardian of the right thing to do, the right policy to pursue. In print, he was too hard, and I was slow toward any empathetic agreement, not being a true conservative, and Galahad is heartened by my determination to restore my merit, to find a way to fill the shoes Krauthammer leaves behind, me, the little whiff of angry vulgarity. I told Galahad I had a suicide plan. “Go ahead, turn me in,” I said. “Make it worse.” Don’t tell me what it is.

Anthony Bourdain only has the silence of what forensic science chooses to reveal. He was a delight to listen to in his television appearances. Sorrow is the right keynote to feel, and in my verve to the alternate path, I need your prayers to use my mind to regain my own control. I weep, and offer them to you in turn, as I plot to get this diaper off, soiled in despair. Pray for me. At the very least, Trump could fly my anus over North Korea, nourishing alternative food sources, or giving Kim dysentery. Not specious enough? I’m not strong enough this morning.