The Drivel Thread

A little more painting of Morrissey In Paris 2
“I find hate omnipresent, and love very difficult to find.” - Morrissey

Indeed, I’ve done a lot of walking these Vancouver streets lately, and have mostly felt hated, especially by a racist black man spouting rhetoric at me in the park the other evening. I’m feeling quite defeated and resigned by it all. It didn’t help that my right lung bothered me during my visit to the restaurant with my neighbour. I’m not optimistic about my impending future. At the same time, I’ve never been more in love, but I feel that there’s not much I can do to make my loved one (Morrissey, The Dancer) happy. I’m expecting to become physically ill in the not very distant future. I hope he reads this and knows how I want him to be as happy as possible. Morrissey, The Dancer, I want to touch you to convey my feelings about you, but I’m afraid time is running short as the mold infection felt like it was closing in on me during my trip to the restaurant. It’s not hurting right now, but I know the discomfort isn’t far away. I want to show you how I love you before I die.
I just want to feel loving, especially toward The Dancer (Morrissey), though I want to feel many types of pleasure as well, like having a good dump, sleeping comfortably, eating a sweet orange, and please, let me be in Morrissey’s arms very soon, on or before the eve of my birthday in March. I don’t want to tell anyone here when my birthday is, but I hope Morrissey’s private investigator finds out. I’m feeling attractive and cuddly this morning, and the full length mirror said I looked good, so I have hope that it’s gonna happen someday, very soon (today). I want to touch you so bad, Morrissey (The Dancer). I know it would feel tangibly to be home.
Up until yesterday, I thought this thread was LH and Baz sending poetry to each other, so I never bothered to read it. I was wrong. My lord, was I wrong. WHAT IS GOING ON?!
I thought it was better when it was LH and Baz sending poetry to each other. Gone downhill since then
Everywhere goes downhill once I arrive.
Don't flatter yourself, it's a collective effort :p.

Driveling on: I've been asked to stay for two more weeks at my current job because the lady I'm replacing -dogs can do anything- is not well enough to come back. (She has cancer). The thing is, I definitely feel like a stand-in now. I even start to feel like my own stand-in because I was really ready to go home, had my train ticket and everything.
The other day a Russian handed me a twenty euro tip because I got him an extra duvet and said a couple of words in his lingo. I put it in the collective box. Every day that passes I get less interested in money. Can't see the point of it. Absurd. The point is floods, droughts. This place used to be a 19th century grand hotel and that's why I took this job -dogs have taste- but is now run by greedy cheapskates. They want to put a swimming pool in the park when it's evident there won't be a drop of water to put in it soon. They're going to damage the roots of the old trees for nothing. Gardens like these are almost non existent, but of course any square meter available must be USED. I should protect the life of this small olive tree, but how? I can't even get them to recycle cans at the bar. I can't reach the syrup bottles, it amuses my collagues. Further down the road, there's the ugliest museum you've ever seen, a modern monstrosity that's been closed for years now because a massive wave destroyed its collections. How such an eyesore was allowed to be built is a mystery. The mafia must have something to do with it. (It's my explanation for anything I find shocking South).
Nabokov wrote tidbits under this roof, but I don't feel any literary vibe. I guess like with most things, the vulgarity and inanity of the constant pursuit of profit erased it. Also, possibly, too many pensioners in slippers. Although to be fair I just saw one. But she did stay for a month. And she was half blind, so. She was nice though. One afternoon she asked for alcohol instead of herbal tea. Maybe she was channeling dead writers.
It's funny though, how beauty only exists in the past.
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There's nothing HONEST about her thinking that Morrissey keeps coming to see her. Yes, maybe that's what she THINKS, but it's not honest in the sense of being true, but when you characterize her as being "honest" you enable her to think that what she believes is "true" and that's the last thing you want to do with someone suffering from erotomania.

So maybe just shut your mouth, you gigantic bore!
I hope you are ok after reading the above, Light Housework. I'm still not sure whether this is banter between friends, or worse.
@nicky wire's legs wants to insult people for a living as a dominatrix, to give you some insight into her character. She hasn’t yet earned a dime doing it, but it got her three paintings I made for her and sent her. She thinks I’m delusional, and maybe that’s for the best, as if I were believable, the mainstream media might ruin things by making my stories official. Morrissey’s private life is mysterious. No group can claim him. The only people I will tell if we finally spend some quality time together are my mental health workers, psychiatrist, and a couple of neighbour friends.
anxiety bloody awful poetry testing the waters trying to feel good in your own skin trying to make friends wanting to alleviate anxiety wanting to feel safe to be honest wanting to have integrity
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