No, no.....not those silly Vampirish undead..........just those of us who seem to be given the gift of living without any obvious reason. Sorry, my darlings, but you are being subjected to the Worst of Lo......it was bound to happen someday...........this is the revolting other side of the Pollyanna girl and I am sure in a few seconds you will be praying for me to start sparkling with ", Glad, glad, glad and being grateful for receiving crutches from the Missionary Barrel ......grateful because she didn't need them. Bah, humbug. Fuck, piss, shit.....I DO need them goddammmit.
Well, not really.....first, I already have my own pair, plus 17 canes, the Walker, the manual (or better I should say foot-operated wheelchair, since that is mostly how I used to scoot around in it when I had the broken hip) and the electric razzle dazzle wheel chair for ramps and for street races with my neighbor Marge on her scooter. And I haven't used any of them, except for the cane, for over a year. Truth is, I am grateful for that. I am not quite sure what is wrong with me right now.......I cannot imagine how even the most skilled vascular surgeon in captivity could have managed to remove my joie d' vivre while removing plaque from my left carotid artery.......but that seems to be what has happened and I am not only desolate but ashamed.
And considerably pissed off.
Actually, since I just spilled a cup of cappuchino all over my computer keyboard, mouse and 1000 notes here and there, you might say I am more than pissed....maybe apoplectic. And stricken dumb.
This is a perfect time to say....more later. sob.
The New Yorker covers: August 18, 1975
10 hours ago