Again this morning, I am empty. I have nothing. That is not true. I have pain. And I have fear. And I have dread. Those are the things that will replace ennui, if any of you suffer that. Those are things that will make you beg for ennui, will make you promise anything if only you could return to such a state.
Hopefully, I will elevate to ennui sometime soon. For now, however, I must suffer despair.
So said, I have nothing, no observations, no rants, no sarcasm to weave.
There are things. The cat has been looking in the bottom pane of the kitchen door all morning though she has been fed. She sits with her nose pressed against the cold glass unless some dog walkers come by in which case she pivots around to keep a wary eye on the street and yard. I have an invitation to lunch outside in this time of heightened Covid. And the weather has been more than fine.
And yet the cost of things continues to rise, gas supposedly hitting $4.00/gallon this spring. The rich are winning and are thrilled to make us niggers suffer as their stock portfolios are keeping pace with inflation. We will have to make do with half assed old cars and worn out old clothes and switching to Kraft Mac and Cheese to keep our bellies full. I promise you, they do not feel our pain. They are buoyed by an angry mob of reactionaries who cannot sit by and listen to the attacks on anyone opposed to Progressive ideals. On the bottom, it is Spy vs. Spy, a fight for scraps, a struggle of ideologies. The Fat Cats and Greedheads sit back and watch the mice fight over garbage licking their lips greased with Chateaubriand and fine wine.
As it was, it will always be.
But look out. The Chinese are coming. One if by land, two if by sea. The privileged are already cutting their deals.
I've been right about everything else, so you can trust me on this one, too.
Why do you think Q quit writing a blog? These are dangerous times. Amass your kopeks while you can. Maybe some of them will convert to renminbi if you're lucky. Or maybe you can buy precious metals. You'll need them. Private hospitals are your only hope.
Well. . . there you go. There's the ranting of a sick and feeble mind. Maybe sometime soon I'll have a pretty picture. I've taken three rolls of film with my new camera without making one yet. Three times thirty-six times, I've struck out. I'll never make the major leagues that way. Hell, I'll be cut from the minors soon enough.
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