COULD BE A SERIES — 2
Prosecuting Pedro the Peckerhead
on coronation eve for a convicted rapist . . .
I had been expecting/hoping to move away from this institutional dump.
My continuing stay here coincides with the massive gut punch of discovering a big swath of young men in this country think it’s hilarious that women’s bodies are getting co-opted by men in all manner of selfish contortions.
Women’s abused bodies, the brunt of jokes.
Why must I consider the humanness of such pigs?
Consoling myself to an extended life sentence here in this dive, I started serving up delusion pie, left and right. I wrote so much cockamamie about how it must be my sunny disposition that was being called for, around this dismal place.
After last month’s deep dive into the raging void of vast realizations, I’ve been psychically informed that I must pull up my massive Machiavellian panties and get to work.
No more escape fantasies.
If I’m going to live here, I must deal with Pedro the Peckerhead. He lives at the corner of mailbox lane and my workout route.
