Tuesday, May 17, 2016

"Machines don't fix themselves"

(Avid Reader: Meghan)

As promised, here is the portrait of the regular reader of this site. The Google-Borg seems to have fixed itself, for now. 

I should create a stock list of questions, something like the Proust Questionnaire, that I can use on this site, combined with portraits of the interviewees. My writing - at least the hard parts of it - would be done for me. I could sit back and watch the money roll in. 

Just press a button, somewhere rats would get free cocaine

Speaking of wine, I love the stuff. I had a few glasses the other day and the pleasant memory of it lingers even beyond the recollection of the shapeshifting pains incurred the following morning. Wine is very seductive, gracefully taking the place of love in the imbiber's heart. 

Well, if you let it in. Wine is the alcohol that most resembles a vampire in temperament and tone.

I lost some readership population when I stopped flirting with the idea of me writing from the perspective of an aging drag queen, desperate to be seen. The idea was fembidexterous, and I had begun to warm up to it greatly, in private. What I needed most were some panties and lipstick, and a mirror. 

A thought occurred to me though, as they often do, that I would make a hideous drag queen. 

Searching inside myself for what type of queen I might be, I went on a spirit journey to discover my Divine Anima, my Femme Fetard. When I found it lodged in a moist crevice of my innermost mind the first thing that became clear was that my inner woman disturbingly resembles Ayn Rand.

What does Ayn Rand think like in drag? Me.

It is an ideous vision, truly, beyond what should be expected to be endured by reasonable people. Somewhere deep inside my psyche is a confused and wandering Ayn; naked, save for hefty tufts of chihuahua fur; unexpected lipstick traces outlining the horror that is the history of her true inner woman. The victim of too many ambivalences. A body pumped full of sheroids. Sort of a fascist greed-whore that seems to speak sensibly to a certain segment of the population, a Pied Piper for libertarians. 

Still, it would be nice to finally be celebrated... if I chose to be so courageous and launch an unexpected debut of this lost and tender spirit, somehow also deserving of love:

(Ms. Evilyn Rand)

If one examines the above picture of Ms. Rand carefully then her reptilian ancestry becomes more clear. If she does not molt her back-plumage every few months then the soft exoskeleton takes over. You can see that her head hair is trying to escape along what would be known as the jaw line in other mammals. I had a picture of her pterodactyl teats around here somewhere, though I can not find it now. I might have hidden it under a rock, in greed and shame, then shame of greed. 

It is such a vicious cycle, loving the Rand.

Why can't I just settle on something more pleasant to be perverse about?

Why Ayn, why? 

You tell me, sexy.