Many people think I don’t respect basic facts of our common reality. And some people actually respect the fuck out of me for that, as if I’m some kind of paragon for the perception that we can choose our realities. As if I validate the bastard and bitch wild children of us all who said, finally at last but not through words addressing anyone, and rather through actions defying the culture of everyone, fuck everyone who they, born into their world, once knew. Think about hyper counter conventionalists escaping into the wild before they die on abandoned school buses. Think of people who go homeless intentionally. Think of people who reject full heartedly from having what other people so routinely will die protecting. Both types, this bitch and her bastard, persist to live out not grown in the cupboard-dependent ways that they no longer know or think about, just as they always have, once freed–––to be this way, wild and free–––with or without any of my own belief defying mythology to support them or protect them. As if they would be needing it. At least it seems this way to me, an outsider, who in my sight of those, who with turgid eyes, supporting them both believe I can make them both, the bastard and his bitch, whom they had never hated, rise again within the ranks they’d both abandoned at, the borderline unrendered results of, would-be banishments, by those others who do not miss them now and who would not have missed them either way if, they could have only known better, how much indeed the hatred was real. The truth is I’m not nearly this good. If you miss out on your own good standing in reality proper, there is nothing I can do to vindicate your deviances. Nothing I can do will make you mainstream proper once ever again. The truth is you have it worse than I do. I’m a daywalker who swims in major rivers, who frequents popular beaches, and who relishes conventional riches, even if by night I’m a scumbag animal who eats out of their trash. Love me anyway.