Pisces 11° (February 28) Wednesday
Everything is a thing. We used to say that about certain people. You know, with her, everything is a thing. And I remember it being a common trait amongst people, at least in the literally gay nineties when never a minute went by without thinking about AIDS and the people we loved and the people we lost and the people we slept with in the past. With luck I can write three more posts in the next half hour is what my brain is saying. You see, for over the past month I have been catching up on writing this Blague. And one might easily ask one why if one wanted. The truth is that I sense I need this Blague to be complete and to be great. I have been writing it for three full years, nigh on entering four, and I’m fucking proud of the fact I dare say.
So I know you had famous parents and that your siblings parlayed it into even bigger fortune, but we don’t feel bad for you. And we certainly can’t understand it as the root to your problems which may be lodged elsewhere. What we do know is that we don’t care, we’ve never cared, and we just liked you. So you can stop testing us (and everyone?) and no this isn’t an open letter to Angelica Torn cum Angelica Page. Torn, Page, oh Jesus fucking Christ, I’m just now getting that this is a joke. Hominy Grits. Smokey porky smells on the chill. I can do everything, Jesus. You were all about self-belief. I can walk on water you said—must have—somewhere before you did it. That would only seem logical or poetical or a minimalistally beautiful new word to express both things at once.
Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
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