I have twitter style newses.  I’ve not yet used twitter.com, but I hear
it is a thought broadcast mechanism.  You can broadcast only in blurbs,
while your blurbs can be heard without limits of direction.  Only limits of
who gives a god damn.

Twitterlry newslies:  I’ve paid the years rent on a well furnished and
electronified four bedroom, two story, two (Asian style) bath, one mango tree,
one balcony, one potted garden terrace house in a neighborhood that in the
mornings is owned by small birds.  Some nights are owned by neighborhood
dogs.  The occasional ten minutes are owned by a local virtuoso singer or
his stand in low amp broadcast that explains how his soul agrees with the
nuances of high powered men.  Twitterly news, and if no one gives me enough
god dam to authenticate my existence… I think the next word was supposed to be
then.  If… then.  I like a non-Hollywood ending better. 
If… 

Who ever predicted what memories would flash at once on their death
fall?  Like in Mad Magazine, I prefer if the main character dies after the
first ten minutes.  Just like that and end.  My style of dramatic
tension – empty and open.  Call it Zen tension.  If…

No resolution required.

.

Got a motorcycle.

.

I’m getting meaner and colder to “my” impedance.  It gives me
right frontal lobe head pain to be this harsh.  My wrists get limp, and I
can’t push the buttons to be the abortionist.  Facts be like stinging bees,
and I be like me, and I’m getting meaner and crueler to “my” live
in.  How harsh must a person be?  Until it feels better to be away
from me rather than near me?  Because much of the time, I want
“my” impedance to be away from me.

Not that I want want to be rude.  Or unforgiving.  Or inhumanly
cold.  Not that I have no memory.  Or sex drive.  Or a sex drive
connected to an embracing rudeness that has for each lover wished to witness her
taken over by another.  Not that.  Not that I don’t care. 

Just that we don’t care.  Spark is we.  I don’t feel spark.

.

A “friend” once asked, what is the theme of this blog. 
Another person who has no nameable relation to me, recently asked me to delete
her personal blog post here, as it was really a personal email, misplaced for
not knowing my current email addresses.

I have no idea what the relationship between those disconnected ideas are,
but I’m guessing dozens of metaphors could cough up.  The theme?  The
theme is finding themes, so I guess there is no theme.  Why I have not yet
honored a privacy desire?  Same reason.  Finding themes is cruel and
public and social and irritating and funny.  Not crossing any lines, but
swerving over them, to be sure.  Blog theme = entertaining shit. 
There goes my right temporal lobe and limp wrists again, complaining about the
sad job of cutting off chicken heads or boiling crabs or lancing genital warts
or desensitising for fun or laughing at retards. 

Finding themes is harsh.  Possibly rewarding.

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