The failed little boys in old men don't like to be blamed, but if I had the nerve, Jerry, I'd curse you with a ferocity to bleach your bones in the grain of your coffin. "I'm the humanist atheist your parents told you to stay away from."
Manic motherfucker. My whole life, a fantasy burning in a methane mass extinction, because I could not handle the impact you had on my damaged neural net; I'm dying on my own shit and the censure of black bull dykes under any other name, never pausing to question whether I was healthy enough for the investment of a terminal degree, thinking liberal ablest punks out of my league was worth the indulgence of lifelong self-pity. If I had the nerve, you thinking that SUNY sending me an audio contract would be some kind of salve for nearly life long urban destitution. Illness manages to trivialize even the best memories, never enjoying either the consent or the force of your sexual substitutes. I begged in exhortation "don't die before me," fortunate that I don't have the courage to vomit the bile of impetuous contempt, my right armpit sweating glucose (who knows?).
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