27 June 12022

☾   27 June 12022 is whatever it is, but at the moment I don’t care. Life is intolerable, everything is crap, and I hope and pray that Shithole America—as exemplified by such garbage states as Florida and Texas—goes down the drain with the rest of the filth and excrement its politicians have chosen to flood the country with.

Do I care? Not really. I have my White Privilege to wrap myself in, after all, and while it may not keep me warm at night, or fed in the famine, it still makes it less likely that I will be mistakenly targeted by some Agent of Authority with a lethal weapon and no judgment. And I’m not going to be pregnant any time soon, more’s the pity.

For anybody who is wondering, my arm is healing—no, it’s healed—but I still have to get my strength and range back. I can type again—clumsily, but I can do it—and even play the keyboard some. I hope that things will continue to improve in my personal world, despite that POS roommate that lives above me in this refuge of the derelicts.

Yes, I have absolutely nothing to say this hideous and unpleasant morning, but I’m saying it anyway. Well, I’m writing it, and I may even post it, just to prove that I’m still alive. That’s always assuming, of course, that there’s anybody out there to prove it to. This isn’t solipsism, by the way—just an acknowledgement that I no longer have any readers of this weblog, my regulars having died, become disenchanted, or simply evaporated.

So that leaves me talking to myself in public—never a good sign. At least my observations, however benighted, have no force of law, and aren’t binding on anybody but myself—and, come to think of it, they aren’t even binding on me, since I can cheerfully repudiate them at any time. Or not post them, or delete them unread. Too bad Alito et al didn’t take that approach with their recent illiterate screeds posing as Supreme Court decisions. Anyone for Dred Scott?