Fleabus and Napoleon one tier, Rosie a second, Olive and Stanley a third, Frankie just eats the food, gives back nothing
There is a much larger gap between Olive/Stanley and Rosie than between Fleabus/Napoleon and Rosie, photo below
- No Sanders obit from me, he never would be permitted to win for reasons I'm not rebarking
- Trump permitted, will be again
- One last time Sanders and the plague: the DNC attack on Sanders, which would have happened plague or no plague but which was urgently coordinated and implemented in late February with a brutal efficiency motherfucking professional Democrats don't want you to know they are capable, made necessary because of full knowledge of the coming collapse of the economy and the need to neuter Sanders before full effect of the kaboom common knowledge
- The virus and the cult of political leadership
- I still think our shitlords aren't the bumblefucks they play on TV, that some coordination between marketing and gaming exists, that it's not just incompetence with randomized coincidences, fellow complicit thrall
- That weird pain in your nuts and the limits of telemedicine
- Wednesday this week, the same day Sanders withdraws, the first Washington Post *the plague may not be as apocalyptic as predicted* headlines, and post Sanders withdrawal insurance stock soared
- When the head of the Catholic Church is more woke than any American politician of any umph
- Utterly believable
- The imminent financial scam crisis
- Joe Biden is evil
- See previous post, I wanted to test the Charley's whiteout method (my apologies, Charley, my fingers just ie because I've known many Charlies, you're the only ey) of motherfucking Democratting, I like! I'll stop.
- Prison for the dead
- Diary 6-?
- Remember (asking me) when I posted Carl Dennis poems here all the time
- Remember (asking you) when I posted PJ Harvey songs here all the time?
THE GOD WHO LOVES YOU
It must be troubling for the god who loves you
To ponder how much happier you’d be today
Had you been able to glimpse your many futures.
It must be painful for him to watch you on Friday evenings
Driving home from the office, content with your week—
Three fine houses sold to deserving families—
Knowing as he does exactly what would have happened
Had you gone to your second choice for college,
Knowing the roommate you’d have been allotted
Whose ardent opinions on painting and music
Would have kindled in you a lifelong passion.
A life thirty points above the life you’re living
On any scale of satisfaction. And every point
A thorn in the side of the god who loves you.
You don’t want that, a large-souled man like you
Who tries to withhold from your wife the day’s disappointments
So she can save her empathy for the children.
And would you want this god to compare your wife
With the woman you were destined to meet on the other campus?
It hurts you to think of him ranking the conversation
You’d have enjoyed over there higher in insight
Than the conversation you’re used to.
And think how this loving god would feel
Knowing that the man next in line for your wife
Would have pleased her more than you ever will
Even on your best days, when you really try.
Can you sleep at night believing a god like that
Is pacing his cloudy bedroom, harassed by alternatives
You’re spared by ignorance? The difference between what is
And what could have been will remain alive for him
Even after you cease existing, after you catch a chill
Running out in the snow for the morning paper,
Losing eleven years that the god who loves you
Will feel compelled to imagine scene by scene
Unless you come to the rescue by imagining him
No wiser than you are, no god at all, only a friend
No closer than the actual friend you made at college,
The one you haven’t written in months. Sit down tonight
And write him about the life you can talk about
With a claim to authority, the life you’ve witnessed,
Which for all you know is the life you’ve chosen.