"Do you think you can get anywhere going nowhere like you are so fond of doing?" asks Lestrade.
I respond by saying, "Don't you think I'm trying to get places?"
"Why don't you just give Wordpress another shot? Just for a bit."
I climb. The climb and collapse of Henry Clovenhood. And I'm like, Fresh air!" but I can hear the prison warden laughing. Like the rope has been attached to my ankle, and no matter that I got up here, I'm coming back down. A broken back. Spread everywhere. This is how Napoleon falls. This is Waterloo.
It makes perfect sense. But I swear it has all seemed like practice.
He had some sort of power where it was like he would take everything you saw and turn it into something else. Like some kind of confusion mist, seeping out of his bleeding eyeball. It didn't make sense to most people, and it infuriated some to no end, but there was really never any reason that he couldn't reach inside of himself and grab that thing of a brain that he was looking for, the holy grail, proving to himself that there was truly something there, within, existing.
It's as though I'm playing the same game with the dog that I play with myself with Destiny except his involves cigarette butts on the New York City streets. Plopping my thumb down his throat like Little Jack Horner, the butt a plum. The sweet doves of his voice wrecked by my sweet doves. Long like piano players. Hurricane Bibles. Somewhere there in the center, the grail of myself. I can see the sadness in kp. Some sort of black MTV.
Entourage advertisement on the subway entrance. Ambulatory lights blocking the sewers off with trash cans. Somewhere round the area Liam Neeson ran down the stairs over and over. By the scaffolding that never ceases.
Glass in the cobblestones giving my dog a bloody ass. Just a little more prep work and you've got a novel there. Something like about how I'm the root of all the problems. Literary jazz to spite my true father, Vonnegut. Sprinkles like cupcakes throughout. Doing your best to blow your top. Shoot the stream into the stars. Freedom lifting the weight off the crook neck.
How many social networks will survive? Is ello dead and it just doesn't know it? Those venture capitalists from Vermont. Seeing things from a skewed perspective.
I keep saying that I can't keep this place clean, that I can't maintain tidiness, but I know that's not true. I've had little victories scattered throughout the years.
Everyone is creepily crippled.
How much of this is an examination into the ways that I attempt to control my mind. Control my body. Like a horse or a dog.
Charlo getting sick from eating cigarette butts that I throw on the ground. The schmiggie has 24 mg nicotine kiss on the lips juice in its atomizer. Kiss on the lips is strawberry kiwi flavor. We have been using 18 mg berry recently.
What better is there for me to do today.
"I'm pretty depressed." I tell Lirpa.
Lilli told her that I told her that she was asking for money.
"If this is a social media vacation for you, then consider the vacation over."
I told her it's like jazz, unstructured, encompassed as a whole, blowing the top, a key concept.
I can work 25 hours a day if necessary, live on any reasonable salary.
...most of my experience has been in sports writing, but I can write everything from warmongering propaganda to learned book reviews.
It’s a damned shame that a field as potentially dynamic and vital as journalism should be overrun with dullards, bums, and hacks, hag-ridden with myopia, apathy, and complacence, and generally stuck in a bog of stagnant mediocrity.
I’d rather offend you now than after I started working for you.
I am depressed.
I ask myself, "What am I doing here?"
I have to call unemployment. Musette calls when she gets to work and reminds me to do it.
I can do it. I told you, I've had small victories.
They called me at eleven am this morning. I was asleep. Musette was asleep. The dog was asleep
"May I speak to Simone de Beauvoir?"
"May I ask who's calling?"
The woman seemed so aggravated, like she was not happy to be at work or she got off on feeling superior to the unemployed.
"Oh, okay, yes, sorry. This is he."
"Mrs. de Beauvoir, were you employed within the last eighteen months?"
I had to think.
"Yes, um... Let me think... Yes, for sure."
"Okay..."
"What was the name of your last employer?"
I told her. She didn't understand me so I told her again, slower, enunciating each word.
"Is that what it says on your tax return?"
"I think so."
"I'm trying to help you, sir!"
"I understand. I just wasn't expecting this call."
"You are two weeks behind on your claim filings. If you miss another one then you will be disqualified from receiving benefits."
"I don't understand. Last thing I know I got a letter telling me that I didn't qualify."
"Because you didn't state that you had been working previously, before your last job."
She tells me that if now is not a good time, I can call back.
I told her that I would like to do that and I take a number that she gives me.