Shirley

Simon Baker's little escapade with Winona serves as an example of why I do not utilize comedies all that often. I am interviewing a student this afternoon, and if the student doesn't work I talked with another resident's CNA, whose name is, in fact, Shirley (score a double entendre for Hazel, as I did not realize my post title was playing second base) and may simply wind up with her after my viola training with Craigslist.

At this point I anticipate offering the horn of Africa visitation rights while I take a fugue conniption in a sand dune. My mother was, cruelly put, skid marks in a fat lady's underwear, which is why I have not the least idea when it was last I wore panties, as I'm an impaction on a roll, like my ex, Frank, indolent on stained underliners. Taupin, of course, meant "Stinker," to be a subversive celebration of the sixties counter culture, but being the real thing is the source of much of my masochism: if not my father threatening my life, then my landlord always in a state of warfare. Never changes. I could stop writing and simply police my own odor borne clutter and it still would not change. I have a complex and graphic story I am working on still called "The Monsters That Go Bump" where I try to offer my readers a visual of my assault as it happened rather than abstracting it in an essay. I still get heart palpitations when I remember it. I based my main character on a dead social worker, but what I have to take care not to be too blatant about in a blog post I let all hell break loose in this fiction, and the crippled woman, under therapy for it in prison, kills her quite innocent attendant in revenge for the assault.

It is a hard story, one I may never finish and may fain find a publisher for, as I make no apologies for its glittering hatreds. Not that I plan any harm to any paraprofessionals, but I hate them all. Most of them. Hate is the one emotion that streams a constant in my fountain. This one woman who contacted me sounds incredibly devout, so upon turning it over she's a skip, almost an anachronism, much like Shirley Booth, in a dinosaur age.