Carcano Ammunition

"So write."-- Howard Stern, when he was still at WMMR

Would it surprise you to learn I hired a 32 year old homosexual who enjoys cooking? I did it because of my post traumatic stress, and I told him about that, the assault. I also insinuated something about the damage to my health under the Medicaid waiver. I told him not to read my blog, this account, deflected what he presumed to be my progressive sympathy for gay marriage, and will admit to you, should he find my spastic dowager url and quit due to my reactionary stance, I will feel it. I am not so far sociopathic yet; however, beneath my conscience, I don't care, honestly, and this reflects how bloody far gone I am; he is white, still relatively young, and I've spent far too much time and money on housekeeping since my divorce and frustration with Tim Artis, sinking in quicksand; this is all I am doing, watching my emotional pain smoke from inside and out.

There is a writing job at Princeton and I'm telling myself to submit my resume and worry about the obstacles later, but my body is over a half century old and I am not sure who I'm kidding. People who knew me in the 90's here are shocked when they see the toll the damage my rift with Linda has taken on me. It has not been as much as some, but nevertheless, the damage has been considerable, more than all the sum total of my epistolary arts, to Ron Offen, the poet who never published me in Free Lunch, but responded to me by telling me about his wife's cancer. I carried his letters into work in my early days with Matrix at their strange, somewhat queer Alden Park offices. I wrote to everyone in the Len Fulton network, and even emailed Len himself later on when he took my SPR oped.

Now I post, to everyone, in theory, but it is not the same. Salutations on paper to individuals were my message in a bottle. I am not strong enough to re-matriculate people, and I am not sure what to do. Finding a Kevorkian to deliver me from getting buried by indigence is a dicey proposition. Writing from the heart is no longer a guarantee of anything, and even if Blogger allows me to resign into Ad Sense when I close LiveJournal, which should occur soon, I cannot really afford to pay in. I obviously do not cater to popular sentiment.

Kisha asks how I am, and I haven't responded to her yet. I fired her twice, yet she found my account on LinkedIn and let bygones be. I've no reason to troll the girl, relatively dark skinned with a son, she's more affluent than I, with my useless education. 

Jerry doesn't know how many tears I shed for getting his signature on Vulgar Exhibitions. He was simply a teacher looking for an apartment, and I allowed this desultory instance to ruin my damn life. I should have simply asked him for a pity fuck and absorbed the damage from a cursory and brutal rejection, c'est pas? Enough men despise me if they do not view me as hustle slut trash otherwise.