I was just sayin how lucky i feel that in spite of decades of doctors and treatments, suicidal misery and near-death experiences that not only do i get my hands on paperwork, sometimes almost have to get homicidal about gettin my hands on the paperwork, then rush thru 25 pages to get to the prognosis, always the last thing on their list, ha, and yay, year after year prognosis is always the same: guarded. yay, i say, something to celebrate, huh?

nah sez webaster. prognosis: up to you.

oh, you'll be happy to hear hellhound now says I am the world's internet.

all the frustration, fury, projection, frenzy, hope, fear, suspicion, contempt, pleading, defeat, strip-teases, etc i pour into html (HELL THAT MOM LEFT) is what computer phobics do to me or something, i was laughing too hard to get it, but basically YO, WORLD, I AM NOW THE INTERNET, first he changes my prognosis, now i am bill gate's bitch, does this make sense? Answer careful.

 

love

trouble

 

 

 

 

 

 

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