All sort of mundane happenstance are keeping me from you, dear blog. The Nanny couldn't edit all my other posts because my husband starting trying to engage her in a conversation about some idiotic cyclone. He thinks because we have a burmese rug, he's qualified to talk about mynamar's current issues. He is really not my soulmate. None of my kids come even close. Come to think of it, the only people that I've consistently liked loved over the years are the spinster sisters and thier sexually static mother, Henya. She's my godmother and I caller her Mommy and those picures are of her . I was an orphan and she took me in 33-39 years ago. This was before african babies and way before romanian babies and crack babies, and back then a blue eyed blonde child was desirable. I feel like I'm missing some babies, but whatever. Anyway, I was looking over Delmont's poem and the ending seemed forced. Though, I can't imagine how any writing isn't a little forced. Either way, I don't think it's very good. But, I can't be sure. It is almost impossible to get feedback on poetry nowadays and I've heard through some gravevine that doesn't even seem to exist that one shouldn't ryhme in poetry nowadays. Sure, I've googled, but I still don't feel a grasp of what good and bad poetry may be. With all the other art forms I feel more secure in my opinion but with poetry... I read the creme de la creme poetry in the New Yorker and I say, "huh." or "Uh." or, "WTF." Or as a british friend of mine used to say, "What are you on about?"
I do like A road less travelled and many ryhming and rythmic poems but the ones about thistle and all sorts of appreciations for esoteric natural things like oleander and calliopes or whatever the fuck.
So, all I can do is present you his work. He was a man of humor. He would say to me, "Abbey, i love humous but I'll only be eaten post houmously." I didn't say he had a sophisticated sense of humor or even a good sense of humor. I only said he had humor. So, clearly, he was highly obscure while alive and it's been a year since his death and because of my sloth and self involvement he remains so. I am being too hard on myself. I know. I know. I have a fledgling muffin business, three non self sufficient children, an obtuse husband, and I want to be a maverick and revolutionize the web with my words and wisdom. Abbey, how can you make time for a dead poet who died penniless in a home for impoverished poets and social satirists? I'll tell you why. Why: Because I sleep the recommend 8 hours and that leaves me 12 hours to do many things. I will not whine about my busyness like the others. Busyness is not enforced behavior. Time is maybe not on our side but it isn't conspiring against us either. Cut it out, society!!!
The tension is easing. Saying cut it out,society! is something I've wanted to say for some time. With this blog and well timed and well scented bubble baths I should regain my well being in no time. I can't remember the last time I had that well being feeling. It might have been the time I forced myself to move on that treadmill and I broke a sweat. I haven't had the wherewithal to exert the effort that would summon those endorphins, for a long time. It could be that the dopamine that gets lost with youth is making forget how good those endorphins made me feel. Which brings to mind oxytocin and how that chemical is harder to get than endorphins and I wish it would come back and take the place of my missing dopamine. but, of course the person who inspired the oxytocin turned out to be a turncoat of the worst order.
My circadian rythms are out of whack and I fear this fibromyalgia thingy that is going around, but hope springs infernal ( as the smaller bone spinster sister once said.) and I am plucky and positive and ready to rock. ready to rock is something my mouth breather of a daughter would say. She isn't showing signs of depression, low level, mild, severe or even clinical so i guess that's good. I'll never share with her a bonding thing but at least she saves us money on pharmoceutiologists. The aspergers, devin, is costing us a fortune because my husband thinks he can be improved. He supposedly doesn't have much of a conscience and doesn't show any self awareness or irony. You might be thinking: Abbey: You're a serial killer neither do you. Who are you to judge your own child?
I can only smile softly at my truth-- which is that I do have a consciense and that I am perfect just the way I am.
Anyhow,the autistic one, Brian, is the lowest maintenance. He's pretty much a vegetable if a vegetable constantly crapped its pants. The nanny takes care of that but I'm bound to sniff it once in awhile and it certainly doesn't advance my goal of getting back my well being.
What was I talking about? Oh yes, poetry and the spinster sisters and fibromyalgia and oxytocin and excercise and dirty diapers. I figure if I keep typing in fibromyalgia someone's bound to come upon my website looking for support from fellow fibromyalgia sufferrers. I don't think sufferrers is spelled that way. I sure know how to do it but I don't know how to spell it. ROFL. Fibromyalgia and Mesothelioma? Who knew.
Oh dear dear beautiful blog, you are a godsend( though I said that wanting you know that I don't practic any organized religion) I keep bringing up god in my speech and my blog posts and I must stop doing that in my social circle. They are either buddhists or agnostics who call themselves atheists or or non practicing self hating jews. I'm an orphan who's birth mother and father's records were burnt during the birmingham riots. So, when i refer to my mother it is the really the mother of the spinster sisters. Sure she took me in as her own and raised me in the same style she raised the spinster sisters, but let's be real-- I'm adopted. Still, when I talk about my mommy it is her I am speaking of. Mommy is one of the youngest and silliest holocaust survivors out there. She has survived astronomic odds to lie on the couch. She recently was given a 99% chance of being either dead in 6 months or having an operation that would take out 4 of her organs and give her a short and miserable lifespan anyway. But, no she got the 1%, and i got the 1% and I would die without her and so I am hoping this blog is the reason I was born at all. I am writing a book of poetry called the poetry of the pancreas and I want to cheer up pancreatic cancer victims and their loved ones with my silly wordplay and such. Unfortunately all kinds of unforeseeable nuisances have crossed my path, and I must fight them before I can complete my life's work. I will get to them later, and i will get them,soon. Oh, Abbey. Oh. Abbey. Be the big person that you are and let it go. Move on, Abbey. People will say you are unhinged, they will say you are "loon." Loon is the new one that the sheeple find amusing. they will say you are angry and agressive and intense and overdoing it --big time. Write the poetry book, send it off to discerning eyes throughout the world, wait for them to grace you finally with a chapbook that no distributor will touch with his 10 inch pole. Oh, that was a freudian slip. Some cretin is now probably thinking, "She just needs to get laid." Well, cretin, I doubt that my deep seeded need to settle the score(in a legal manner) can be cured by a roll in the hay. Could you tell? Could you tell i was a prude? I can't seem to type intercourse or fucking or even sex or screwing. Roll in the Hay? What a prude I am. A serial killer can be so many different things. I think that is a tight way to end this particular post. I think I am right. And You? Catchy?
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