Misery

I have been rather silent about Niume and Virily both since I've joined them and since gone awol, though I have a post in my head which may please Virily, when I can get to it. I am busy not being busy because this damn foster cat I adopted for my dead baby boy is going to kill me. Kimmy is a good girl, but she is my fourth pet child, my semi-second female, and one cannot help but love them but she refuses to let me drive my damn chair, refuses, without first combing the carpet for prey. This, and controlling my summer bowel, is my life, not to create an affinity with suicidal post modernists, but you have little idea how much I have refrained from constantly talking about the tyranny of stool movement and control, and how remarkably well I have done thus far despite almonds and four pints of ice cream. I have mainly ceased eating ice cream because whether or not I'm lactose intolerant milk makes me sick and speeds trots, but I have had so little I had the pints to create mucus, cursing fate. I am not a day person as is but my age, in these temperatures, in an environment where I am constantly angry and want to hurt minority women who are so ignorant it makes you question evolutionary process. How can such stupid people exist? I hate shallowness and have worn thin with baby pictures, but it takes no great degree of temerity to realize that perhaps collaborative blogging isn't a troll tamer. I do not generally like niume content, and I am still traditionalist enough to know that computer graphics don't translate well, whether the artist's creation or a photograph, like oscar's work. It is not the same experience as viewing in a gallery. Virily, I haven't really read, but I'm slightly too leery of Russian hackers. Nato isn't going to exactly do a hula hoop for the sake of Estonian sovereignty, and I am about as poor as the average Russian female trapped in Chernobyl. Both sites say they miss me. Very nice, but they too, will kill me before I ever see any real profit from either. Fuck em. I have other priorities right now, like enough coffee for a caffeine overdose, despite the weather.

Strategic Retreat

As the lunacy of my non-compliance continues toward the overwhelming crisis of self-enforced eviction-- what, exactly, do I expect to happen without access to electricity and toiletries? Nothing beneficial-- I'll pull a shuttlecock and actually post about a partial or legally blind content creator from the ewe mentality of Niume-land and its troubles. I've written before I have very little to say about the intersection between art therapy and aspiring disabled individuals in the fine arts, and I have, at best, a nominal command of art criticism, but those of you without chronic pain want this, positive attitude effusive, sympathetic ecology appreciation, and would prefer I turn the rudder, assert that Oscar Perez has an eye for the harmony of contemplating the environment. Done.

Certain things don't translate on web sites that well, and traditional portraiture, whether paint or still frame, is one. Digital pictures cheat the aesthetic appreciation for which our eyes, symmetric and concentrated, like all primates, were designed. Oscar followed me and I followed back, and barely hear a peep out of him, picked up a slightly more centered perception of him on Virily, where I've remained relatively quiet. I hold happiness and contentment suspect, and believe those inclined to genius normally do, and, in affinity with my mentor, Jerry, I do not like crowds, though my twitter presence escalates, at least on the benevolence of the gatekeepers.

Do you want me to tell you what will happen if I do not evacuate myself from Presby? I did not think so, but I shall, just the same, release my inner militant. She will ensure a tragedy occurs if she doesn't get out. The lack of physical ability to fight is irrelevant in this regard.

I came up with the idea of a subset essay at least, whether or not for my collection, of something like "The Jerry Memoirs," as my bondage to his memory fades, and he is a wisp of an old man on a stick. I dug up his 2012 reading on YouTube. Same old McGuire, and yes, I expected, for him, some sort of expansiveness, instead of a parody of his forceful 40's. I do not know yet, but corrected my self-awareness. I attached myself to him out of shared conceit. If he was the best Shakespearean on the east coast, I was going to be SuperCripple, if this is easy enough for mass mindsets to grasp. The late entry 19 year old needed a piece of that ego, and latched, however unconsciously intuited. I believed that he could spare me a condemned fate, and had I been more dispassionate, I might have been right, but he ignited my cunt, as reductive as that is on end note.