Scorch

I am not on, not at the moment, not with the precision and focus I want to maintain for this project. Perhaps I will never grasp my thesis, though I know it is here, both in the raw and the cooked, to pull from the culinary arts, which, just as anything else, is coping with life through the palate, a subtle theme in the film adaptation of Cunningham's The Hours. I saw this author on Rose, doing the usual whoring you want to be moved and bowled over and fucked by my vision, do you not? And the film, much like Babel, traumatized me, though it did so using the key Caucasian narcissistic keynotes of Western pretension. Iñárritu is much more complex, and his work is something I have not fully dealt with, and in the stupid way the human mind works, I cannot do my laundry this evening because of Nicole Kidman's ability to emasculate, because Cunningham took one of my few very favorite female writers, Virginia Woolf, and yes, I am hard on on female writers, but that is because most of us, myself included, refuse to suffer for the sake of genius, and this is another reason I literally despise Josie Byzek-- not because she is stupid, but because she lives in pragmatic denial, like my sister, despite the differences between my sibling and former editor, both now antagonists, he took Virginia's anguish and transcended it, and he did this all without directly invoking faith, and I do not know that I will ever read his novel, would love very much right now to scream at him and dig my fingers into his chest and no, of course I shall not, and dare I find an email address and write to him, if I get any response from him at all, it would be a standardized publicist response, but I haven't read the book, so he is safe from the failure of spastic's... what?

Never mind. I spotted this morning, nearly a year to the day that I thought I stopped menstruating. Leave it to me to defy the medical model. I forget which physician it was, of course, but there was an article published about my extraordinary verbal skills in JAMA, or some buried and yellowed medical text. I am not supposed to have them, these skills, the acuity, even the ability to speak as well as I do. I will do laundry later, hopefully tomorrow, and even though one is not supposed to use rhetoric in this fashion, orthopedic surgeons, eliminated, would make the world more bearable. I could write it in more inflammatory fashion, but I hate doctors; they have not made my life or body better, and I'd sue Shriners Hospital for being worse than butchers. They were no more than torturers back in the late 60's, and yet, mio padre is my last parent. How can I hate the man who never allowed me the honor of being his first born daughter, who only wanted to be her father's princess?