What
I’ve spent most of the last 72 hours doing is a perverse form of digital
housekeeping, accusing someone named Godwin Bowen of stalking me through
multiple user accounts, although I didn’t quite phrase the indictment this way
in our brief direct message conflict. For all that I know of online predators,
this could go as far back as Mawson Dave and his Syrian relief efforts, these
persistent private greetings trying to alleviate my duress in a majority
minority city, or maybe people are making fun of me in the cesspool of social
media sewage. I am not looking for more cyber sex adventures. What I need is a
better quality of intervention than what welfare can offer me, as opposed to
the risk of an online sociopath who washed out of the armed forces. In this
context, it is remarkable I remember Mawson Dave’s user name at all. In between
Mawson and Godwin, I got hit by an alleged Australian widow in Oregon and a
French homosexual named Sebastien in Mouelle. Sebastien in Mouelle is 42, looking
for a committed relationship with another male. My limited French, mainly
utilized to parse Marine Le Pen’s rhetorical flame throwers at normative
Parisian liberalism, was appalled. There must be a ground zero in there
somewhere, and yet it is Facebook which took the brunt of my pathology, not
Twitter. Citing Paul Joseph Watson was merely a pretext for an undulating anger.
Visits to the mall of which I no longer have the luxury, second cousins I do
not join for zoological strolls, or Tassoni’s video of monk seals in Hawaii.
What is all this but an aesthetic list of deprivation for me? I never built
those planks of my own immediate family. All that lingers there is an uncouth
cop from the Bronx, and he’s dead, so I had enough. Facebook, in the
estrangement with my half-brother, is scheduled for deletion, while we leave it
to Bloomsberg News to offer minute items, Fatbergs are now clogging pipelines,
and as happens, occasionally, I had a massive discharge, and refusing, after
midnight, to sit in it, I cut the panty off and got it in the trash. The care
worker will not see victory. I’m this close to canceling Medicaid and rolling
off, assuming I even have stamina enough to leave the city’s jurisdiction, my
death will begin with a staph infection.
John as he is today, my bleeding La Traviata. He prefers that Rocky and Adrianna be aired for Thanksgiving. He talked to my aide on Facebook most of the time. It wasn't a double indemnity I happened to enjoy.
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