I went to Beavercrest residences on 162 avenue and spent the evening with two radical obese women. They are proud to live in the ghetto where they resist slum lords and fuck one another.
M is hung up on her friend and lover for eight years who left her for another woman she calls the rich cunt from hell. The rich cunt from hell is abusive to M’s ex lover. M showed me a Iphone photo of her lover. The skinny dweeb looked unconvincing as a young man and as a woman. M hates herself for not being able to help her ex.. She has been chain smoking Newports and gorging on twenty two dollar cheese cake.
M was in her underwear that went above her navel. Her large cottage cheese thighs overwhelmed me and disgusted me. I wanted to fuck her in the kitchen
but I was scared I couldn’t get it up. I had already disappointed one woman in her fifties when she kicked me out of her ranch house basement for not following through with
love making. I don’t know what happens to me? I simply get disinterested and disillusioned and I only want to be left alone and not think.
M had found photographs and photographs of her grandmother and mother, who used to rob banks for her heroin habit, jumbled up and set in frames she got at the bins. It confused me. I kept asking her which was her grandmother or mother and which was a stranger.
M’s new 21 year old room mate has curly light brown hair. She was round and
had breasts that made up her midsection. Her legs were negligible. She was dorky and talkative and suddenly began to talk about her history of molestation and documenting it
in a way that her mother wouldn’t be able to read her handwriting.
I played a trivia board game. I was nervous about not getting the answers. It wasn’t multiple choice. I didn’t get sad. Usually I get sad when I’m asked a question point blank. The first questions were thankfully dumbed down. I was able to answer the first three questions at the back of the cards but when it came to American history or geography I was dumb and mute and I wanted to fuck M’s big butt.
M talked about how she hated the system. We think we are free but we aren’t she said. She said that it was hopeless to organize, that they had made it impossible for us. She thought it boring and a lot of work to collate the information and envelopes when she worked for an anarchistic organization. She thought that virtual reality had isolated us. I thought that the hackers were the only ones who could do something to change the system. I hated using the word system. It felt outdated and safe. I mourned the young depressive hacker who killed himself after he was tormented by an ambitious U.S. attorney.
M informed me that they call regular conversation hyper talk. She bemoaned that talking and organizing has become too challenging for us. M wanted to do something violent. She didn’t just want to protest. She wasn’t interested in how to cut sugar cane with an AK47. She wanted to blow up buildings and join a group that knew how to make bombs and use dynamite.
All the anarchistic organizations that M has worked with have been decentralized.
No one wants to take the lead, M said. When they do they get killed.
The roommate had to go to her day job at doggy daycare. She used to work with criminally insane juveniles. She had to keep a log on when the juveniles masturbated.
she said that they were violent and that she panicked when she misplaced the key to the panic room