Depreciation

The Queen of the house represents the Christian virtue of mercy, which is different from the equitable justice allegorized in Britomart. Whereas equity returns to philosophical principles in order to ensure the defendant receives his proper due, mercy offers freely to redeem offenders who sincerely repeat their crimes.-- Poetry Foundation's rehabilitative sympathy for The Faerie Queene

My sister-in-law cannot convert my Office 7 files not in the cloud, and I droop. The only way I know how to defeat this on my own is to find my Office 7 CD, which is hopefully somewhere, hack my product key, install, then open said files in Office 365, and the only human being who probably desires to help me solve this with all his heart is a paraprofessional with whom my lifespan is alarmingly eclipsed, so hurry, get it all in, and there are worse things in life than misdirected denial, but a decent way to leash a man, to my surprise, is a thousand dollar piece of technical hardware. It is nothing new to wake up and feel rebellion with biology. Robert, in messenger: "I can't believe I'm 67!" "Forever young!" The dowager retorted in equal vein, as I go stomping around with I'm 56. But I am 56, and whether certain lines are blurred between regressive care, I was onto that as early as his first Wednesday with me, and something more, I remain restless, my retrenchment not least among the reasons for that, to be polite about what I mean, but you should know already. I mean, this man took a risk, because I wept, he wanted to console me, just as I've taken risks of late, running through every rationale while he takes me to school on the court. I do not want to be sexually manipulated because of depression and cynicism simply out of a misplaced fiduciary duty on his part, and yet we've been so close to taking each other that I am not simply frustrated, more than that, perplexed. He trusts me thus far not to can his ass and says he is in heat for various areas where we all know our erogenous zones live, and I'm his fucking job at the same time. He's guardian, family, brother, and yes, a man in my life who outlasted my particular talent for being unforgiving. And this, despite the fact I cannot cut him down. There are 1001 pathways to that but his zeal is a bit forcibly sealing my jaws and silencing my tongue-- not about the heavy petting-- but him, because he's the rare embodiment of a good man. I've always wanted that, but not due to his economic necessity. My cousin, equally scarred, asked why am I afraid if I believe I'm in love with him. I'd think the answer would be obvious. If and when he's ready to move on, who gets screwed, whether or not that literally happens? But as of yet, I am not sure I've grafted my own hybrid of apples and oranges. 
I'm 56, losing ground to technical folly and not a few unexpected ground balls. Do I wrest out some kind of commitment from an inner city minority that will make me self-conscious for the rest of my life? The anarchist in me isn't dead, trust me there. 

AT&T's vibrator exchange

you're too slow-- my plow horse pseudo-husband

My plow horse of an aide, in actuality no match for the dried bramble of my disillusionment, is simply too genteel a minority for my rancor over desire whetted on biological happenstance. He trotted me through my paces today, and at the end of this billing period, my old USB plug in will be discontinued, and I contracted a Galaxy S8 over 30 months, though when I can return to actually being a journalist? It isn't simply a matter of ignited loins; it is an issue of psychic separation. I've grown too close, too dependent, and if I want to dim my heart then I need to split him off and go do my thing. On the basis of my prior dim-wittedness, however, I will continue using my Apple for my hotspot. I'll know more next week about whether my considerable deficits can shoulder two lines. I am assuming, given his followers, that Russ Still is a minor celebrity and I should play the affable savant gratified that he followed me. If I do not misconstrue the matter, thank you for following me, Russ Still, but the dowager is a woman with many hard blows kneaded into her, the woman kicking her ribcage inside begging for one last passionate twirl, while the outer ligaments of her body grow increasingly reluctant to do anything except burrow through six feet of top soil for the rest in peace as a universal Kantian experience. Or in other words, my heart is broken because I have an almost intimate relationship with an African American paraprofessional who has my ass in a sling, but you country singers aren't afraid of cups of hemlock. How I am even writing this much on three hours of sleep Thursday?

Souffle

I am partial to digital mah jong puzzles for useful procrastination, always on the look out for more intricate formats. I must have done something wrong with my external drive, however. Medley cannot load because the .dll is missing. Wrestled over staying online to play my other Gamehouse concepts, but Toshi here seems to have tamed, and my lungs have coughed up enough mucus to get French pastry chefs to the 22nd century.

Next time I reformat-upgrade, I need triple word processing back up. If other writers put content in the cloud, do they get ripped off? I know Azmo uses cloud services for kindle, so I will find out if I transmit my files to either device.

Long Withdrawal

I am at least temporarily restored, and not sure this will reach twitter but I am, reluctantly, one of the twits. My life is hell and I may need a new printer. If I was 20 years younger I'd marry Ashley from the geeks. On my Toshiba pc and I am displeased. If things stay functional I shall return this evening. My life is hell, come hug me. (How can one be needy and a misanthrope at the same time?)

I had a manufactured clash with my favorite enemy transvestite Monday afternoon in the lobby before dear Ashley had to tolerate my latent post menopausal hysteria yesterday, and I came very close to telling Erik that dancing on his grave would be one of my last exuberant sensibilities: interaction with s/him freak is a bitter reminder of my career destruction, and though Erik is three fourths closer to cessation, compared to my one fourth, the least we can do is ignore each other, a salve to my bitterness.

Psychic Space

I suppose I should be responsible for my computer maintenance and start my upgrade this evening, if my disc drive will in fact run. If it will not, I will have to hope I can reverse course, come back online, download W7, or hope my Amazon Toshiba is still healthy and that kimmy, my miniature jaguar, did not damage its charger. In terms of hardware I'm primitive, and software less so but still illiterate, and really just want to work, but suppose I will need to lose 48 hours, perhaps more. I do not know. If I delay a little longer it may be until after Midnight Lace, but would prefer the above.

I have seen them both before, and that I am not on for extrapolation now does not mean something would not occur to me later, like why putting sexually high status blonds in danger seems a kind of trace residue from the dark side of Hellenistic culture. I have my own caste resentment of blondes, whether organic or bottle, and have been entertaining an essay about that for awhile, because I got into a snipe with a contributing editor who was in fact a blond, with a kidney transplant concern, and though it has no actual impact on my career (what career?) I can take my impolitic aspects and make some hay.

I am a misogamist at least some of the time. Masturbation is no longer pleasurable, and vibrators probably not much of an option, too much arthritis, and who knows what else, but I have procrastinated long enough. Perhaps this will be less excruciating than I believe. What does peace feel like? As if any fool would be brave enough to interact with me over that question.