Chachi Piercings

and Farrah Faucett's death becomes a footnote in history, a commentator on Jackson's overdose the same day

So when Mary Poppins here deigns to lecture me I will bite. She is the one shouting. No one had to respond to my cross post. I was just politicizing dependency. https://t.co/j00AtgwZWR

— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) May 27, 2019

So much of a fusillade, these so many things to do while shading in the margins of circling the drain, and where does directional conscious lead? To a mild sense of astonished commiseration for Scott Baio in social media mothballs. He gets attacked for tweeting about his daughter playing golf. We should all have Mr. Baio’s problems while we lament incontinence destroying what is left of quality of life, and Melaine shouts about cooption of a Delete Facebook pushback (promptly deleted after her bout of agitation over her indignation of digital etiquette, for Christ's sake, with this country's problems). I too am now universally excoriated by the disabled community. We all die alone, the title of a German guilt novel so thick with pathos it submerges like a diving bell, or like Farrah dying on a luxurious duvet, maintaining her wounded Texan girl looks until the very end, but that very end was the most horrible transfiguration of what and who she was, inured, after years of medical drama, inured, but not quite inured enough not to find O'Neal's material trappings grotesque, purely and simply, a fetish of baubles. He'll never answer my questions about The Driver, this piece on merging Walter Hill to Carter's bubba presidency. I've worked so hard to penetrate, merge a thesis on my own terms, my life vacuumed under, much like the impression of a manufactured construct Alana Stewart leaves behind, a residual effect, Baio's solicitation of crisis management is merely a pragmatic reflection of reality. Video rules our lives more thoroughly than any impending existential threat to our existence, like medical rationing. I regret absorbing Farrah's struggle. It was rather tense, superficial. Perhaps Mr. Baio is just a proud, decent dad, but I am past accolades. If a critic wishes to appear sympathetic, Baio had a amicable mien, in the window of youthful vigor, suitable for the nostalgia toward milk and cookies. While Happy Days splayed its wholesome innocence, I was in the surgical ward, bones broken, my insane mother driving me into a squall, arguably dooming us both, those fleeting moments sparse. Have I no joy, nothing in this momentous arc? Only those moments before the end of my affairs.
I hurt Sunday evening, my face mottled in loneliness, poised to do anything to end this *home care*.