What do you think boy? He’s got his head leaning over the arm of the couch, his face facing the door. Musette bought a lot of breakfast food yesterday, so we don’t have to make a Dunkin run. She’s got a sack full that she leaves on the counter, and I’m the one who has to go back and get it, even though she made the mistake, because she’s pregnant and can’t be expected to trudge back and forth up and down the stairs.

Umm, it can be a little tough going. Why is it so discouraging, I ask Manwell, and he tells me that he wants me to x-factor over all of ‘them’, and then he has me define ‘them’, which I won’t do here, because I know that some of ‘them’ might be reading.

I don’t want to give myself too much credit. I’ve got a grip on the numbers. I’m not delusional. I know where I stand. Circling 420, most of them not liking anything I post. That’s a little harder for me to wrap my brain around, but I’m just not really all that liked.

The ones who like me are also disliked by others. We relate to each other. We’re taking the dirt that ‘they’re’ trying to bury us under and making mountains out of mole hills. With the needle point of my pen, I’m trying to dig out the fear that they have of us. My meager and eager audience is right here with me. We’re on the same page, dedicated to the same demise.


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