Sortah Working Class Corner

I went to the Post Office and mailed a piece of 2 by 4 I'd painted a rule of thirds cartoon on.  Then I went to CVS and made 2 6 by 8 prints of Kirstin Dunst in sepia.

I'd like to have a show of pictures at the George Eastman house.

Before I left the house to buy cat food and stamps, physician I attempted to post to In that post I addressed the army problem.

For a bit I felt like an artist.

I remembered innocence and roaming with the shotgun.

Then I reflected on trips to the Post Office, prostate and the Post Office Box.  When I was a kid there were habits of life that I seem to maintain.  I mailed off letters at the post office, went to get replies, and went to the store for comic books and cans of food.

Now I sit in silence with only white noise of a GE fan that will cut your hand off and cats that walk on my desk and sit in my chair.  I may get to putting together a slide show for the slide projector.  Everybody likes to look at pictures.  My eyes are going to hell and I fear going blind, or running a pedistrian over.

Meantime I am ashamed that I have debts I can't pay off.

I got a note from the online literary agency that I paid money too to read and critique and represent my most developed screenplay asking for money to represent my screenplay in China.  It would be a cold day in hell when China would buy Jet Beach.  Jet Beach would do alright in France and Germany and some in the US.  There is sex and love and nudity in it.

I remember being young and passionate, seeking out sex and heartbreak.

Now I like it quiet.  Still I want to accomplish the bank, the insurance company, the army, the airplane combination on land and sea and in outerspace.  Some things are more fun than other things.  Some environments are more perfect than others.  There is something great about life near the beach.

My Mother wants to know what sort of outing I would like to undertake.  I pretty much just want to visit the ocean beach, or go to a strip joint.  Do they have strip joints in China?  Back in the day I had a tent for vacations, odd travels with the first wife.  Fuck it, she was my first wife.  I forget now her address and wonder why I loved her so much that I nearly killed myself when she left me on April Fools.

I know a pilot who did remarry his first wife out of three.  They seem awful happy.  Real pilots are right much odd in that they are prone to making decisions.  The old pilots continue to just fly on.  It would be interesting to profile the oldest pilot, as opposed to the oldest person still breathing.

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