Post more, post more!
I'm trying, I'm trying. But everything I say gets flattened out during its trip through the intertube, and when it gets where it's going, you can't see what I'm trying to say. I mean, the WORDS come through, but it's just not the same. There's no spittle, no raspy voice telling you what's what and who did it. If I had the resources and the time, I'd try to visit you all in person to tell you how it goes, but even then the grabby girls would have me before I got from the parking lot to the terminal, and what then?
Well, we know
that bit, don't we? Then I get thrown down the chute to land in the Maricopa County Jail with welts all over me and weird puncture wounds up and down my back. I'd have to wear pink, which just ain't my color, and Sheriff Joe's minions would come in twice a day to beat me and tell me that I have all the wrong values, that I'm a spic-loving troublemaker from out of town, and God knows I'd never get to see my family again.
So yeah, post more, post more. Talk is cheap, they say, but they haven't looked at the cost for the alternative: life in jail without charges, for unspecified crimes against the caucasian protestant majority. You want that, YOU do that. So I'll just sit in my silent town in my silent desert, and try to POST MORE, POST MORE about what's gone wrong and what hasn't gone right, and I can learn to live with shouting to an empty room, and I can learn to live with the mockery that comes when I complain about it.
Because it isn't a patch on what They would do to me, if I were to fall into their clutches.
Or words to that effect.
Okay forever,
Dok