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 don’t make me build the funeral
pyre because You won’t, 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, what’s this post-it-note doin
on your refrigerator, stopper?
things
to do today:
·
shopping,
·
dentist,
·
dry cleaning,
·
examine life and death issues
that’s 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 I’m the first,
idiot? How old is this sentiment:
I’ve said it before and I’ll 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, I’ll have a sexhellholekitten debauch before I see any clockwatching puritanical boomer soymilk spurting—wow, 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 what’s with all this advocacy; don’t think I haven’t noticed the courtesy, arty-gracious-civility, tell me this isn’t his baggage, his affectation, it’s a beautiful love between a man and a woman, the thing called am I expected to succumb to this, roll over, sure I suppose it’s normal to have these boundary issues with your new boyfriend, and aint I a woman, so how come I feel like I’m about to sprout a beard? Something suddenly and very seriously seems askew somehow. See all that alliteration, reader? I never do that, where’d it come from, huh, tell me that alliteration didn’t come from him, competion, am I right, trying to sabotage my muse, people do this Bob.
I know, it’s not his fault, I’ve seen the IQ Scores, he’s 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 “frolic in the garden of art and madness” while he takes care of the paperwork. No he says, I am the garden, he’s the help. Fine, be nice to me, make me nervous, know more than I do what the fuck is going on, you’re 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 don’t, I don’t forgive anyone, you forgive everyone, it’s a beautiful thing to be on the square, I’m tryin to set some important boundaries, no blending, ok Bear, let’s not go down that slippery slope, thanks!
Love,
Bare
Copyright 2002 Robin Plan and troublewaits.com. All rights reserved.