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blogging

I really love writing, though. I really do. But anyway. The poetry collective seems all but kaputsky to me, unless I have been experiencing schizoaffective time dilation again, wherein: a day is long and a week is an eternity and anything more than that is enough time for any project to simply die. I really wanted to keep it up, to publish on our Patreon and have like a monthly thing, but I don’t know if the folks involved are like, up for the production challenge. I am. I definitely am. But perhaps, as is want to be the usual case, there are more tasks involved in getting it running than I thought. But perhaps not, and I’m just perfectly right and all of us with all our mental illnesses couldn’t publish a flie squished under a penny. Ew.

Studying Django this morning. It’s so fascinating, how many factors it takes to publish a production-quality (whatever that means; it seems to be the lingo among professional web designers in any case) website. Back in the day all you had to know was a little HTML and cross-site injection. Har har har j/k. J/k! I said. J/k. I don’t know if you capitalize the ‘k’ or not. Belligerent father downstairs. Says I’m fat all the time. Whatabitch.

Well anyway, his heart is black, but at least it’s in the right place. Wouldn’t want to eat any of it as I would probably develop some form of cancer. Lukemia sounds horrid.

I guess I’ll try to write some poetry. Wish me luck!

~

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Father, Who Raised Me and Now Doesn’t Know What to Do

He raised me

And all he can say now is, “Get a job”?

Guess how he raised me.

He uttered a single word.

And I don’t know what that word is.