Soon I'll Be Left With Nothing But Stars, Some of Them Fake, Space Filling With Satellites While the Blazing Bodies Drift Farther Away and the Moon Trails Hopelessly After Them, Crying For Love
Currently on chrome and firefox on both windows on my work PC and chrome on my personal chromebook this blog's blogrolls and feeds are broken and disordered and in a strange font and clicking on a site brings up nothing but code so (fuck me) all the links in the grid of anger are at least a day old, fine metaphors abound, enshittification-wise, today's mood the same as yesterday's the same as tomorrow's:
I'm trying to be cold but too-hot wins. Work bloweth now also, my busiest hardest month of the year, the month when my two core responsibilities peak, and here, as in everywhere, the assholiest people are assholier than ever. You know, shitlords are tuning us to be meaner angrier, more selfish, less kind, it's part of their extermination plan for us, to make us so busy being angry and assholes to each other so we are less assholes to them while they openly endeavor to kill us. It works: look at my grids of anger. You do know that shitlords think you are capable of enjoyable evil equal to them? It's their magic power. I was briefly saved yesterday when I heard this song on Daniel's show, I love Lon Fin Killie but I love Bows more and the song below the grid and this song especially
Everyone's trying to figure out where to go next. California was good until some of it was swept into a furnace, the rest suspended next to a target over a carnival dunk tank. Nothing is good forever, not even a thing of beauty, no matter what Keats said about joy in that really long poem I could never finish. Chocolate was good, especially dark, now they've found cadmium and lead. Eggs were cheap, then pricey, then astronomical, as in probably cheaper on Mars where no one wants to go except one megarich clodpole. New Orleans was good but then it snowed in New Orleans and those levees won't last forever, either. Today the White House announced reality was canceled once again, maybe to be reinstated when the Styx freezes over. I spent the day alone in my friend's house in the Arizona desert. Wandering from room to room, asking the mountains, Are you my mother? I wonder where she went after hospice care, if she joined the few souls flitting from that armless saguaro to the dying mesquite tree by my friend's pretty pool she never swims in, fluffing their wings as they settle and coo. Detroit is supposed to be good in fifty years but I'll be dead then and if I lived there now, I might want to be dead. Everyone wants to breathe but it's getting more difficult, all those boots crushing everyone's tracheas, all those trolls under the bridges trying to devour us as we bleat our alarm. Baaa! I'm bleating now. The mountains reassure me but the sun's going down. Soon I'll be left with nothing but stars, some of them fake, space filling with satellites while the blazing bodies drift farther away and the moon trails hopelessly after them, crying for love.
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