04 August 2010

or how about the sighted person act without glasses?

[click image]


Don't you think this might make young people feel warmly enough toward me to want to hang out at my blog? I think I look like a darn geeky twenty-six-year-old here, don't you? Like a mole woman who has just emerged from her tunnel and can't believe her almost totally blind eyes....

I may have been this disinclined to blog all day because we're having to sue the president to prevent him murdering someone in cold blood... an American someone, because, of course, because he can murder as many foreigners as he likes and we will all go about our business as though nothing at all is wrong with that sociopathological murderating fuck.

I'm also being a fucking pansy about this bit with Billy and my pleasingly-ferocious goofy image. I'm too goddam serious. I take everything to heart. I think my beloved old friend has accidentally tripped over some dharma to impart, and am all giddy about the karma of it, feeling very warmly toward him for making no bones about his hatred of that image, trying to plot out a way to take the buddhas of the ten directions' advice... and then, and then... and then it turns out that he was saying all that as a setup to allow him to email me endless images of horse-faced babes with fake tits, fake buns, shaved twats and idiotic postures. I should have known. He's telling me I gotta get with it, understand that THIS is how the young people are doing it these days. Goes to show you how with it he is! He's ten years older than I am and the ONLY young people he sees are these poor little slutty things out there begging—debauching themselves avidly—for their big break.

Times are hard.

It is to be expected.

But I don't expect men over, say, thirty to be interested in that crap. Silly me. I know. But I really seriously don't. Can't help it. I go on about wanting my wealthy socialist gentleman, and you are already positive I need one of those REALLY badly, and in fact I really do miss having man energy in my proximity, someone who can lift things, someone with a deep voice... but the problem with that is that you have to endure puerile shit like this. I know it's some sort of imperative of the DNA and men are not wired for nuance and c'est la vie type of thing, get used to it, but I can't get used to it. It's too stupid. It's too caveman. No! That's the wrong term. Cavemen are groovy, courageous, serious, THERE for you. It's too second grade.

And they fart. And they breathe entirely too audibly. And if they're not total slobs who need a maid running around after them, then they are prone to going brain dead at regular intervals for sports. I can't stand effete liberal men. I want to brutalize them for drill and for the cosmos. I want a left libertarian with a monster IQ and that deep voice. I want what I always wanted: a genius logger. I had him. He ROCKED. He was perfect... except... except he lost to the booze. Dammit.

Oh, well.


I could hang just fine with the insane part. I have always been a magnet for barking mad people—the right kind of barking mad, I might add—because if you can live in this world and act "normal" something is irredeemably wrong with you. I can't hang with that. Madmen are responding to reality appropriately.

Don't you forget it.

But don't you use it as an excuse.

Take responsibility for it. Get down to the love. Tell the truth. Be a true human or you're worse than the rest.


I suppose I should be proud or pleased or grateful or at least amused that Billy turns to me whenever he's feeling particularly frisky behind ogling all these surgically "enhanced" sex toys that breathe, but, well, it's depressing, ruins the sublimity of interpersonal relations, always makes me start hearing despair out there wailing on the headlands for my attention. I race past it naked frequently on my way to screaming off my cliff, and pay it no mind, as though it were not there, but this stuff makes me hear it. I have not yet donned my THE END IS SO NIGH sandwich board, but I don't like hearing that creep out there, seeking to render me comatose.


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