My Apple news feed asks the question, “Why are people smoking toad venom?” I don’t know. Why Apple is offering this little morsel of click bait is also beyond my understanding. I could get all sanctimonious and make comments consistent with that opinion. Rather, I can conclude that the geniuses who work in web communications are simply offering up a supermarket tabloid without a trip to the supermarket.

This might explain why I get People Magazine headlines about “celebrities” I’ve never heard of. I have no barriers between the weird and effed-up world of celebrity culture and myself.

Somehow Prince Andrew is assessed differently from your average everyday pervert who might stare into bedroom windows or masturbate to video porn. Ditto the other “celebrities” who chilled out on Little Saint James Island with Jeffrey Epstein.

The Victorian/Edwardian world was full of aristocrats and upper class “gentlemen” who indulged their sexual proclivities and tastes with no awkward exposure in the press. Oscar Wilde was the famous exception. Lord Randolph Churchill, Winston’s father, was allowed to die of syphilis in peace.

End of rant.

I will no longer think I must be mute lest I offend a coward who has neither courage nor tongue nor mind.
We fell asleep and let them ruin our world, 
Murdered the heroes, lionized the swine.
Taught us shame for who we will always be
Cavaliers who will die with kings, while regicides seek glory.
Roundheads always claim to sing the people’s song, but we know they are in love with only their own voice.
Run away, if you will not fight your duels like a man.

During all the turmoil of our time, it seems only fitting we remember Elvis Aaron Presley on his birthday. Elvis may have left the building, but he will always remain in our hearts.

What do I say? How can I say it? The rubbish pile I call home is too much for me. After sleeping on the same sheets for God knows how many months, I decided to change them. While doing so, I fell into a pile of “stuff” on J’s side of the bed. No harm done, physically, but there was an old hurt it aggravated.

“This house is not a home, at least not my home.”

I don’t live here, I merely exist here, but I can’t let myself breathe or relax or enjoy even the smallest pleasure. This is a place where my dreams die.

And so I must break the stranglehold on my creativity, my imagination. It sucks. It is daunting. The anger and hurt I feel from the alienation that characterizes this clutter, must go into what I write.

Crazy stories, dirty stories may come from me. As if ass-licking and sodomy were the embodiment of alienation. That wound of hurt offers no promise of healing.

Enough for now.