THE CHRISTMAS FOG.

i. A FEW DAYS BEFORE A Christmas I HAD NO REAL INTENTION ON EVEN ACKNOWLEDGING, I WAS ALERTED THAT RELATIVES WOULD BE SHOWING UP, AS IT SEEMS EVEN A MOTHER DEATH CAN NOT STOP THEM DOING THEIR WOP ACT FOR ANYONE HERE. I was told with a few days to make a Christmas on the fly, as didn’t even have tape and had to get a pork roast out of the freezer, though amazingly, though they hated Poultry every xmas my mom strived to make, now suddenly the Roman meal of pig for saturnalia and new years, which I hope I am free of them then, was somehow against whatever dietary laws they can come up with on the fly.

One reason I despise Hillary Clinton as I do, is that the husband proved to me he was a weakling and pussy as a brother also steeped in Romanism saw from the beginning, but alas his use of Ovid against the mouth breathing women and the miss Grundy’s, I thought, meant something, which is my own fault, as again with his ilk, nothing comes out of nothing. I see her as an awful nun , making a Roman addled schoolboy into little more than a Jewish husband who will never speak again. One reason I thought that I sized her so, like Peggy points of lights Noonan now admits , they were hated by the sanctimonious, ah Now you weep, as my namesake thanks to my mother would so say. Now with Bilbo I guess for all instants and purposes dead enough to not corrode and corrupt, a falling, fallen, angel in always I guess, as Somehow we are being given platitudes and homily from those pigs who were early on television making Monica jokes with glee and now, the face making monsignor queers of Cyclops and bloody sheets, have the never to lecture us through their grinning tiredness of evil. Too bad, I say, remember the bathwater, tap water, toasts you made against all Roman laws as yentas try to steal the papacy for the first time in a thousand years. And when nudes I had done in art school after hutting the local strippers at the Roman V to come in and pose as exemplars of femininity, ala Raphael, who also used the working girls of Rome as his model’s for various Minerva’s, when they started getting torn down in our perpetual Cupola vineyard, I have to ask the crime family scumbags, if they ever heard the line from Dante about how many bags of shit are at the island of Medusa…?

Too, one bigger reason I  hate her so is that recall when my father was still alive, I saw her, still in all her mousey haired, myopic, glory on some stupid show of a sort  I used sued to watch, I believe her getting the sensual distress of a lineman head named Gerroooge, that would later marinade in to any hag in a storm. So, don’t tell me you’re upset she’s not imperial persona you human lemon, as I recall when you made a point that no body was as tall as they’d have hoped.
I saw here early on, on I think it was David Brinkley after he had somehow eschewed the Kmart of networks, the Nation biscuit company, and the grave of General Sarnoff, to A Bigger Check, and a Ominous Sunday show if his on in shod days when not only was there no #metoo, but rape victims had to take dna tests just to prove Byzantine Bill was even on the same floor, so devoted were we woken to the king of the crime bill. But why I really hate her was that she made a point, this human bag of shit, this queen of weeds, and every other diminution I could pull out of Tacitus if I had the time, or inclination, was that she was a first person to make a point that of course Mariko Cuomo was somehow not the liberal champions  that her and dripping husband was. Still then in 1991, though he was busily making the rounds of Sons of Italians would actually be at, as was with Carter, but between ogling the underage Ginas there, and drinking Grappa as if he liked it,  and he living off of fried dough’s as he had at the carnival enabling his life was, somehow Mario Cuomo was not as staunch a liberal as this hag, and her cunt of a husband was. I am off that showboat, Bill, I cant stand to see you anymore, it is a sadness like catching Namath as a Ram,as I didn’t pretend that I was a cross between Niccolo Machiavelli and Dennis Mitchell now did I...? Only to have to make sure that Yes Dear were the last words parroted as a continual Rozzsssebudddd...

Early on, my brother, saw less than hero Bill Clinton with the pussy qualities and he’s whose been able to quote Ovid, to this day chapter and verse, and knows it alllll,,,,was against those two pigs who were slithering towards power , tunneling forward like Milton Satan, or just the tape worms that they are. But early on, too, I felt a certain empathy for Brother Bill, and his open love of Roman farce, epic, strategy and epic, and too, for his obvious love of Roman dinning girls like Cattilus at the carnivals, surrounded as he was by Biddies, queers and sycophants of power.
But now, I am not so sure that my brother wasn’t right all along. He did, after all see through the long winded address that Billie the kid--notice woman’s spelling, gals,  a feature of Roman farce that I’m sure bought and paid for hoodlums like CBS monsignors aren’t allowed anymore, like asking a bad golfer, does your WIFE play golf too…? All which now may be  just another lebso joke, as once again, the Romans and their genetic love of truth means the barbarism will be making another pyre for what pages are left over again, I hated Hillary since  then though, as did my suspicious Mom. We saw her coven at some Tim Russeret, and he’d pay as must they all for having not greased the skids for that hag enough, asked her why she was against Mario Cuomo, as she once was, along with aids victims. Well, he, she announced somewhere, to my distaste,  on a football Sunday in which I was just waiting to see the suddenly restored Cowboys ala 1990 or so, like Sauce was, that Mario, damningly, had said he rather see a society, mid- Regin,  that was far too much to bear for our mousey berthas to be fair, decency and the qualities  of mercy, again a line from Ariosto, were so much of her husbands cum on white shoulders, and meant nothing to the Satanist- Goldwater delegate she has always been, as in fer a penny. I held that against her now, all these years and hope her husband got her good,  as always felt there was a real cruelty at work here, that he did make sure to humiliate the old bag as much as anything, and rooted him on, Ah, but now, like all circus, we have stayed too long, and need some pace from these clowns, a sad roman minute of devotion to lost nobility and grass and crows, already shown on page there of Ovid’s January in the book, that again, showing his sharpens, my brother thought that bloated imperial John Clinton would die to avoid.



So, now, the great Borgia marriage is surrounded by immigrates who recall them at the temples that Torquemada tossed their salads at, as again, like Jews finding italy as a less theocratic land despite who holds the banners, , there is always a pretence and a fear, like with Yenta Bloomberg, the hard sell is just again hiding the fact that another bloated Bugsy is eventually going to step in Gucci shoes he’d naught. Bill is surrounded by enemies, again, and now the prospect of having been emasculated into Lady Bird is nothing compared to a hack, capped tooth , nothing, who should he be embalmed into standard barer, the ghosts of long dead Jesuits from bulldog land will see that as a most awful, reversal of fortunas.

ii. The only decorations Ive put up for this watering to have been unnoted Christmas was a poster I  did of a Black haired Cammilla as a Jovial Angela, complete with helmet, Minerva shield and of course the body of a penthouse pet, which was done and accepted by a site where the lesbians who have accepted my work have had a adverse reaction to being shunned and demeaned again as of all people, lesbians seem to be out to get the auspicious of a Jewish cartoon piggish bag of tripe, who like Jimmie Kimmel, they once were unnerved by and made sickened by, not that long ago.
And too, I have a small plastic Christmas lighted ornament, an angel with spinning roses, like an image one would see in Dante’s Empyrean. And that was it, as was asked by a onrushing returnee if we were ousting up a tree, causing me to wince, and my brother to almost yell out, heard on the phone from here at the angel lit darkness, your mother is dead, bitch, give some fucking respect in this fucking toilet of a nation.

My father, and the Jesuits, trained my brother even better than I, as I am never schooled by how low they can go, as he often is. The lesbian girls with which I deal, are suddenly not so keen on their queen as she going to Howard Stern was a previous aged fault, it appears, and recalls in them just how full of shit this whole things was, which to be fair, a gal talks to me that I did see coming when spoke of how Monsignor creepy Boys room enthusiast Steve Colbert had at the beginning of this needless morass, did when him not making faces and smirking at Bill as  he said Monica aloud, thinking he was somehow now freed of the debt of making jokes about the great queen, no wait, Prince, who can tell in Tacitus, mistress, well whatever, he thought himself quite the king of things, as snow dissolves into the warm waters of not being liked, at which he was used to.





But then, my brother asked me not to glower or be of bad cheer...he said Life goes on, and though this wouldn’t be a Saturnalia as it had been, it wouldn’t be dry toast either. He went to the state store and bought a case of Coors for me, the only beer I can drink in Irons city land that doesn’t remind me of swill, and piss, and bought a bottle of Jack Daniels, florid with apple as it was the old mans drink, a mans drink , as is aid , before we all became insurance salesmen. As I  remember when football players sued to sell things men liked, like Bourbon and woman. and even panty hose had a sexual aspect, a who likes short shorts aspect that hags of empire like Miss Grundy Warren will actually rail against, thinking somehow for the first time since the Romans that the spoils go to the vanquished, which they never ever do. A few days before Christmas, my brother gave me a gift certificate that he had won somehere at some gala he was at, and told me to buy a classic book or comic books, a gift from him to me, to not not mark this Roman day, that like Bloomberg and his blue streak of apologies and resentments and reconsiderations, there is nothing any Semite has ever said or believed in, ever that cant be fandangled and reamed to include what the people believe in, from Saturnalia to Lady Luck, should the aliases suspicious purists of arabesque find that the plebes looked down on so hardily are , with Mars and swords in hand, see what I did there, will take the decent house n****grs among  us and make sure that net flicks doesn’t honor its contacts.

As 175 MILLION BALLOONS IS QUITE THE LAY OUT FOR YET ANOTHER MAFIA MOVIE, STARRING THE QUEERS, MOLED SON, WHO DIDN’T SEEMINGLY HAVE ENOUGH RESPECT FOR POP AS AN ITALIAN AS HE WOULD HAVE TO HIM AS A QUEER, ESPECIALLY WITH WOMEN ABOUT TO FALL OUT OF CLOSEST,  AND TELL US ONCE AGAIN ante Trump AS JUST ANOTHER CICERO’s PLAY TO MAKE SURE NO ONE RECALLED OR NOTED THAT THE GREAT Jewish WOP SENATOR WAS WILLING TO TAKE MONEY FROM SULLA, THE FIRST DESTROYER OF A VAUNTED AND LOST AND ALWAYS CAPABLE OF BEING LOST , REPUBLIC.

And Christmas , of all times, seemed a bad moment to bring that fool back,--Scorsese, or Cicero, for that matter, -- especially what with his having been stained with old Jews tossed at him, with numbers tattooed on their childish  for arms, as again German engineering is nothing, at least to me, as compared to Roman, as Poland is not filled with Pantheons that let the sun in at the right times s much as they are dotted with crematoriums and rail roads,  that the newly manned cbs Jewish rats hope early can be brought back to the earth, least it queer the latest deal withy always make with their latest blonds.

That amount of scratch could have made not another mid century ode to the Jersey swamps of Lufthansa’s case we have never Technicolor and blood squib bed enough,  quite the Juvenal, could have been made. As while Tina herself is white knuckling it in her dreary suburban ride, selling again Insurance, as again I feel like I’m in an all state commercial.
That amazing amount of money, to make again a Mafia Movie seemed untenable and I hope he was Italianate enough to steal a third, like something out of the Satyricon uncle Bill has left, like the Roman festivals just come,  unfinished. Of course,  Ovid’s heart was broken, as he was taken out of the great emerald city, yes Rome was called that one in one of these, as all things Roman weren’t so hated until it seems Jews and in laws,  needed a minstrel show forty years back,  and then dared to pretend that the in laws they sold themselves to needed someone to laugh at , who , of course, wasn’t they.
I again wrote a paper that got its share of admiration from the brethren, as just like the apaches who have sent me another dream catcher my brother says to place on the wall next to a Mom’s picture, as the italics are nothing if not approximating and appropriating, and then of course, the spics will tale us how we must watch their pigheaded up accoutrements, and as I said to some cunt who dared shoveled her shit at me, about cultural appropriation, Butch, there hasn’t been a senate this bought and plaid for in two thousand years, ...you’re  welcome mutherfucker.
My paper about THE DIGEST OF ROMAN LAW WAS VERY MUCH ALLUDED BY the boys of the society of Jesus, as they liked me more than the dykes, negroes with scholarships, and hillbillies and lace curtain bumbling pill heads of that time, whose try again to take over et Urbis Et Orbis, and trade to both snatch and of course, stubble and break Augustus’  golden orb. They, like the apaches did, liked my Romanisa, liked the fact that Apaches wore the same feathers as did Roman centurions wither the softener poverty law pontiffs like it or not, --they never heard of Jeddah--as they just love people in rags as I was alerted early on. But I didn’t listen to anyone, as my pop told the well wishing Rabbi, and the brothers liked that I saw a connection between the first true constitution , sorry Paracles, like Jews they ahve to give a lot of givens, and the shows loved as a boy, like Paladin and Gun smoke. They liked that, a lot.

And, all I know is that Martin Scorsese has seemingly made more movies about the Irish, than he did about his allegedly beloved Romans. And The Irishman departed into a consent Christmas drizzle lack of notice, as did too, commercials starring house wop Devito, whose been doing a take on a wop from the barrios of the shire now for longer than any STEPPEN should have to ho dee golden do. Seeing in his hit and miss delivered The Wall Street Hournal, that Peggy Noonan is telling everyone that the Clinton are dispraised by those who now with their evil eyed infama, as Ma would call it, have the audacity to pretend they didn’t make Monica jokes, making Colbert now find new drinking partners for his styrophome toasts, he said to me, How the Fuck do you figure these things out, from so far away from their Marble halls. He also laughs that Pillozzi is eating her plate of crow, as no one in the senate wants a prolonged , silly, unneeded , Jewish rite, and hardly Roman, of a cutting off of Trumps feet, look it up, initialed Goddesses. As see, coined again, proving I am right about all but girls, and who is...?, there are a teamsters union of men in purples sashes, who have to sue January to do a Full Santorum, you know the dumb wops allowed to be called shit run off by a bargain basement  a faggot creep activist, who is always there , like Scorsese to make sure the in-laws know everything they thought of you was right all along. The Capote factor.



iii. So then, in what was becoming one long dreary , dizzily, snow less Christmas, the package came . A copy of Ovid’s Roman Festivals, I think on the eve of Saturn’s holiday no lamb of God could do battle, as  Chrissy as a mad man at the Christmas sales had not given over well  as to be fair to the Romans did didn’t when people were just looking to have a fucking holiday without this self important creep who stole copiously from Zoroaster and Roman congressional records.
The book had come. And, its title would be in ;Latin, Festi, not English, although to be fair, the English queens of literature are actually starting to give the Romans their due, and heavens to Betsy, actually give the books the titles that Roman and italic geniuses gave them, the days of Cattiline’s conspiracy long been done, securely at the National review. Here was the book, though the Brother  was disappointed I had not bought a hoity-todier copy and not  sued the whole certificate, and instead got a cheap Penguins copy as I had, and it was without the Gustavo Dore drawings that some spics and Spanish have utilized to be able to have careers amid the white woman who only know Dore , if at all having seen the pages of gray and silver brilliance as they go up in flames , showing again, in Germania, even the progressives aren’t that different from their circus hating, corn flakes eating, studdbubba grandparents, as I had been warned. I rather liked it as a cheap version, as used some of the rest for flair pens, which was find with him, and too, as a gift for him from me, got a family sized, Tide detergent Box of juju beads, a favorite of his, and small packets of peanuts. He was not pleased that I’d do that, but he does like, as do we all here, like eating enthused the gummy things all day, and it was a size I couldn’t forgo, as its the same way that Ellen and Colbert buy their decency.
And flipping through the Roman Calander, I see this book isn’t edited by people who seem suspicious of all Italian geniuses and Roman works of days, as again they have to admit about Ovid lately, he has become big since Bill Clinton mediated he was a favored, while Johnny Carson’s ghost show that a calculating ninny of a family once said, in ‘92, as Bill said he liked things like Roman epic and farce and classics and drama, Johnny recounted that this patrician bitch, born with a silver spade in his mouth, the line changed for being said by Ma Richards, shoeing some men don’t lose 12 straight elections by accident, and the feeble Liberals have always been doormats, as like the Colbert’s who wont get anywhere near the golden door, they are glad to be here, as they are glad to be anywhere, until like Tommy Smothers, they are told black rock is not amused.

The old coot, M, hated Opera, of course, and liked horse shoes and Hee haw, to WHICH the comically perplexed sophisticate Johnny made a face that got a laugh about the beginnings of our sliding down Virgil’s cyan road. And, I saw the story, I think, recounted in the Roman lists of festivals  that told me why Bill Clinton should have never come this far, or done half his shit. It seems in Augustan Rome, from where Ovid had been exiled, showing Augustus I guess had Ennius Roman meter meaning he didn’t just Kill the great poet as he had so many, that it is known that Augustus , wafting a restoration as pigs like him wlasy do woken they become, when they think they can no longer be arrested, like in Chappaqua, that eh didn’t like the old forms of religion, which a Germanic doctorate explained weren’t so much a roman acceptance of the old elusions as much as some hidden satirists that had once covered the earth in whole. So, Augustus went to go after that most Roman of goddesses, Jews and fascists nad Germans don’t like Minerva, I know, and he actually smashed a Roman temple to Vesta thinking he would recapped walls with Mars. Ah but she was loved, something I have warned the Jews, like Audrey,  and the priests now trying to remove her name from Transvestism, and arcade it with mistrusts of alphabet soups, that Vesta is no Jew Boy willing to be so whipped by the seated Governor.




When the made man named Maccius ,I think, the owner of the tracts of land called Carerra, in Italay, where that Auguries where plaiting the usual church of the penitents,  the perfects and the peculiar, Puritans ism, and that Vesta had been shattered to the ground, he walked in to the Praetorium. I am sure Bill Clinton would know, without any such appointments made by the  vestals he had standing around, as did Bill, as men had knives...and women dunt...? Any how, as reading this introduction not as anti Roman as many of these things are, calling Ovid no less a heroic figure as he juxtaposed the Jupiter of Palatine with the Jove who raped Silva and Daphne and et al, Macias hearing of the Great Clerk’s distress at Vesta of all things, he had his meeting with the tentative god, and explained the Vesta of that temple, as solemn enough Roman temples be smashed by barbarians and house niggers bombing Libya, that the model for Vesta here was not his wife, but his most beloved mistress, and that gallows have to be paid for by someone, don’t they...? In days Augustus anchored that his Midas like touch would turn Rome from brick to marble, but like Ovid, whose present came hours before Christmas , like he, and maybe someone else who keeps the Festi scared, liked Rome better when it was full of bricks and brunettes...

Christmas came, and I was heart sick to see I was surrounding by people , all Clintonish, who didn’t much care, and kept doing their shtick. A fat bloated relative wont give in on such things as blaring a television, and makes sure , like the fatso she always was, far from the eaters on command of theater, that will tell the most vulgar filthy stories while one is eating Christmas dinner, as of course, she makes a point she must watch the Flintstones, as if , as with her ilk, Hillary they think live will forever, it will always be 1975, when by then, even I a moppy haired boy, knew that those days were already irrevocably gone. I bought Ovid as will read it through as a rite of sorts while watch whatever trials are on television, in which only Bill Clinton could be the witness that makes  it all make sense, ah but he says already, like the captain of the anybody but Clinton brigade and hsoue n***gers with Martial wings too, they will not fulfill a subpoena, literally under the imperial hammer, much like they didn’t when now lionized CBS Seal teams members were left to die, as an Augustus never much could do.

iv. There was a real gloom over the city, maybe the whole region, over the media antics and I took out the garbage just to get some cold wind hitting me. It was a fog now, everywhere, and the nearby old leaden Xmas decorations on streetlights shone like starry starry nights did in Van Gogh’s tweezed and brilliant mind. I have gone on too long, and missed much, but, as a gift, my brother calls from Big Lots on the eve of the day of the resurrection, called that as Jew baby missed nothing once filed as a 501 C3, apostolic sun. As even reactionary, to sue a Mad Magazine- ism, Cicero, though quoted and loved by stone faced pols that my kinder and sweeter Mother despised, when literally hags from Cicero Ill., did not, did say somewhere that all religion came from a Neanderthal adoration of the sun. With Augustus’s comparing himself to Turnus, that did not go over well, but gave the old coot a lovely eulogy as I’m sure Clinton has written for any occasion, or need for a finally gotten dinner.
He had bought a cheap old DVD player from Payroll , asks me if I want to go pick it up. Sure I say and get dressed quickly and were out in the cold night, a small strip of red sky at dusk as the weakening , but soon to be predominate Roman Sun, as the persistent, daily fog of now, makes the lights of old time, Menchen hated yelow porches,  shimmer as the Romans would ahve wanted as a simple indo-European hidden lost religiosity, since someone at Rachel’s now ignored page made a point that I’d use that word, we can never know what the slur is after all, as I found out this year even mentioning Ariosto is a crime amid the family who wishes to have genetic powre, as poppy didn’t pretend he loved horse shows and Hee Haw, but eschew La Traviata, at least in public,  for nothing.

The fog was as thick, and constant, as it had seemed since I was a boy. And At Dusk, the lights all came on, and there were small wet shined bulbs of color, reclamation of a spring that the Etruscans called Prima-verdis, to the point they didn’t even want to name the wintertime, as Ovid here explains in a forwards that isn’t as defaming or detesting as many of these always were. The fog is prefect, as my mother had the Roman sun and clear skies to journey to the dark sides of Tennessee’s brother moon, and so now,I didn’t much care if it rained till new years. Look, I said to my brother as rode through sparkling bits of colored lights, there’s a church, lets go in and light something for Ma, for the season. He was dumbfounded. Are you kidding, he said, What are you talking about, what country do you think you’re in...? He called my bluff and we got out of the car and went to the large oaken doors. Ahah...he said as I saw, not in the clothes I should  have been, just a windbreaker on, the doors to heaven and hell were adjacent maybe, but also padlocked with a chain worthy of a Horatio Horn blower galleon and a lock as big as my hand. Goodwill towards all, he said with a sharpies smile, But lock the doors, father Mcgee.


The rest of Christmas week, I ignored any news crap, again place Ovid line about elitism and their ends here, there is a reason he is important to us Romans schoolboys in various forms of distention, and watched with the remnants of this family, who were never willing to stalk Praetoriums, as have the honor of a generals name as my pop told ne to inculcate me against the pan-genetics of SCORSESE, ALL THAT WHILE AGO, the old DVD I connected. As Star wars and Belli-cheat showed the third act is always the hard one, we sat here and watched Eastwood, the last LOTR’s which ma wasn’t here to note what had been stolen from Rosalinda and Italo’s folktales, but my brother left when the elves, as he said, tossed the ring into Etna, and he forwent the ten false endings. We watched the Departed, though he wanted no part of that, as Infernal affairs is better, I recall, and a shit load of South parks, as he bought every disk there he had found. Like Jon Stewart in the Obomination the guys at South park also befriend me in 2011 or so, showing again, like Bill Clinton, I am immune to the dis-natures of German nuns, bitches.

The best parts of this dreary Christmas was either the fact that Virgil’s atlas did come up out of the sea and slash STAR WARS on a Roman anvil, as it has been depressing me since I was ten. Some Empire struck back, kids. Or better the fact that Andrei poo , the new Gay Lombardo with boys from the bus qualities, had to admit that something called Black Palestinians, no wait, that lilly is gilded, no wait Israelis, in fer a penny…anyhow, Black Israelis are cutting the throat’s of Jews just trying to have the holidays even Jew baby Son O god Jesu seemed to be begrudge for them as people were starving in Bactria, although never motioned ten year old girls raped at the Villanovis when he said render unto Uncle Shylock, or whatever Tyberius was at the time. I made a Christmas wish , issuing my mothers remnants of Neapolitan magic that that hag Hillary “ Poker FACE’ GET WHAT SHE DESERVES , keep Virgil sacred hunny, don’t make the mistake your misbegotten hubby did, don’t bring up Ovid if you thought the end of time was ever going to be Mayan, hag.

My brother called as we went through the Warner Bro. collection, as was not a fan of either Casablanca or GWTW, before Negros were told to avoid it. I am filled with anger at myself for jiving, not kept impressing Jesuits and letting title niner fat, sloppy white, pig, broods think they owned the world, escaped on this occasions when still living , campaigning dead trash were told to let Iran amuck quietly go under the bridge, like when they find out Bellicheart is in fact, still being a naughty boy and now, as I thought, hooey so without compunction, or even Gilberto like prospective has to cheat against the Bangles, which can only mean he’s becoming more dangerous with each passing day, but what does Roman Anthony ever know…? On the phone, I had told him to put Superman 2 back, as wanted to get the first one first and maybe even the whole serial too before that and the rest of the Reeves collection, but soon regretted that. As the fog descended on the already dark, or black days, as Brokenhearted Ovid called them, the only festive lights in the room came from the small electric angelica I had plugged in as an only accompaniment of the holiday this awful year, and the older television, and moving colorful construction paper motions of foul mouthed little boys and a chubby funk or at night, a girl in rabbit years, showing me I wasn’t the out of place other that queens in Ovo, as I wonder if dear Brother Scorsese was actually shook when he , a supposed genius, was told he had to go headmaster Iger’s office for daring said something about their Virgil, pajama gamers Stan, and wonder if they’ll make him walk the streets in golden chains, or a little girl dressed as Minerva, because as its always been, triumph, even my getting a page here and there, and a well wished word of condoles at Saturnalia, is beyond his love of darkness and money. I was better off knowing who I was, and really not caring whatever was said by queers now pretending they are always victims, or future tom boys, or bathroom fags, or their later bearded girlfriends would have retried to convince me.

_