Dear God, the blank people are trying to kill me again, please get rid of all the blank people who want me to disappear instead, why shirk Your responsibility toward innocents such as Myself in favor of the self-righteous cluckin unfuckables known as wimmin, all their rights are wrong, downlifting, liar after liar, please donít make me build the funeral pyre because You wonít, You know Lord, arsenic is still available, I can make muffins for my clients any day now, mama come here quick and taste my lickin stick,† disdainful,† annoyed by the fact of my very existence, whatís this post-it-note doin on your refrigerator, stopper?
things to do today:
∑ dry cleaning,
∑ examine life and death issues
thatís what you get, cunt† for hiring† me† as your housekeeper, yoo hoo, reader, how you doin with all this, open your mind please, support my work, support yourself, what do you think keeps me from killing you outright? What the fuck is wrong with your cerebellum, why do you turn away from my truly joyous expression of anger? You think Iím the first, idiot? How old is this sentiment:
Iíve said it before and Iíll say it again, Freud is not dead and neither are you, thanks to his now discredited concept known as sublimation. You should try this, unlike murder there is great pleasure to be had in sublimation. Are you almost ready to fuck me yet? Line forms to the right, retreatist.
Of course fucking means hellhound, as in, yay, torrential combustible coupling on the horizon: my boyfriend loves me my boyfriend has a business card, fine, Iíll have a sexhellholekitten debauch before I see any clockwatching puritanical boomer soymilk spurtingówow, I can almost see it coming baby, right now, wow, all over my er, facets.
Christ, I could take any man any day of the week with both hands tied behind my back, but his is a foreign land, all new and a groover too, but whatís with all this advocacy; donít think I havenít noticed the courtesy, arty-gracious-civility, tell me this isnít his baggage, his affectation, itís a beautiful love between a man and a woman, the thing called am I expected to succumb to this, roll over, sure I suppose itís normal to have these boundary issues with your new boyfriend, and aint I a woman, so how come I feel like Iím about to sprout a beard? Something suddenly and very seriously seems askew somehow. See all that alliteration, reader? I never do that, whereíd it come from, huh, tell me that alliteration didnít come from him, competion, am I right, trying to sabotage my muse, people do this Bob.
†I know, itís not his fault, Iíve seen the IQ Scores, heís got at least 80 points on everyone reading this, how can he keep from destroying all you fucks, is that my job, or am I the thing that needs rehabilitation? Is this displacement, Dr. Webaster?
I thought I was expected to ďfrolic in the garden of art and madnessĒ while he takes care of the paperwork. No he says, I am the garden, heís the help. Fine, be nice to me, make me nervous, know more than I do what the fuck is going on, youíre supposed to be over your head here hon, but just this morning he calls, nice, as usual, just checkin, he says to see if this was his day to be Colonel Klink, ha ha ha, close-but-no-cigar-dad, colonel Klink all day Saturday, Robert Downey Jr. Template Saturday Night, remember too, webaster, values clarification: I hate people, you donít, I donít forgive anyone, you forgive everyone, itís a beautiful thing to be on the square, Iím tryin to set some important boundaries, no blending, ok Bear, letís not go down that slippery slope, thanks!
Copyright 2002 Robin Plan and troublewaits.com.† All rights reserved.