longer.blue

Carol And Saint Earwig I have a new Instagram follower. carolgroverwood. Affectionately known to me as Aunt Carol. No message. I pasted in one of the recent Deviations featuring her. No picture for profile. Instagram is one of the social media platforms Thomas Wayne Randle has been documented publicly stealing identities of Patty's oldest daughter, Priscilla's oldest daughter, Aunt Carol, and her deceased husband, also named Tom. A 69 page pdf on the Internet Archive records Tommy Tiny Coward Penis pretending to be her for a year, badly. This was on my text thread, captured using Truecaller premium and E2PDF. Carol is in her seventies now and has moved to Sedona to be with the other crystal people. One Christmas we were drinking at Grandmother Joan's house in Universal City around Christmas and she asked if she could have permission to enter my personal space, meaning aura, and dance with me. I often wore a Grateful Dead Steal Your Face shirt and she was of the original generation. I think she had observed me dancing in the neo-hippie style as I had at three Phish shows by then, and we, without music, engaged in a synchronized random expression for some minutes, barely missing each other as is the goal. Upon completion, she mischievously reached out her hand and narrowly missed grabbing my pants zipper. Part of my attention still spaced in unfocused peripheral view caught the puzzling movement and allowed an imitation of a bow with hand fluttering flair as punctuation. Giggling, the prettiest of the three sisters ran off, to the bathroom I'm told, presumably with a personal piece of my astral life shell. The first time I met her Gloria had asked me to help her sister move all the shelves and tools, products out of her shop, Carol's Corner, in Universal City. It was the first time I met both her and Barbara, whom I immediately told they were coming to get her. Carol's son had rented the largest moving truck and the five of us filled it up with little room to spare. Carol had made custom prints, stationery, inkstamps, and probably anything else that involved colors printed. Much of the equipment was the sturdy, heavy kind of the previous generation. No printers and scanners. We barely had cell phones then, and they certainly did not answer our questions on the interwebs. Upon arrival at the destination, her son Mark got the heavily loaded box truck stuck in the mud backing it up to the barn on her and Tom's property in Saint Earwig. Almost immediately, he takes off in his car with his girlfriend, mumbling something. He's older than me by some years. With the end of the lowered ramp still at least fifty feet from the barn entrance, the dense moisture of one hundred percent humidity settled in mist on the already squishy mud. I would make an unforgettable impression on the neighbor's family that night, Mark never returning and I only stopping movement once or twice until the load had been stored. I highly doubt the anonymous, generic person icon on Instagram is the woman whose cooking fed me many times, whose husband Tom offered interesting conversation involving his job working with computers and information technology, which was not anything like it is today. The first time we spoke he pointed out that he had never heard a term I had used, server farm, before. A different holiday gathering he drunkenly became obviously obsessed with my friend Shorty's rather prodigious cleavage, turning the normally quiet and often otherwise engaged nerd into a smiling, intently staring comedy punchline. While certainly used to the often comical stare of men, Shorty couldn't stop cracking up and being a jiggly, bubbly, very emphatic target of leering. I even waved my hand in front of his grinning, near catatonic face at one point. I don't think any of us could stop laughing. It was like my friend was being ogled by one of the McDonaldland characters in big, fuzzy costume. Not the Hamburglar. Maybe Grimace. I don't have my Instagram notifications turned on. I see very little reason Carol, the oldest and probably over seventy-five by now, would follow me and not immediately send a message. What a coincidence that four days before I start walking north along the highway in San Antonio dragging a piece a luggage with a backpack clipped to it and a guitar on my back I should hear from a person I still claim as part of my family and have known for decades. How truly pathetic Thomas Wayne Randle is. Trying one last time to publicly attack me disguised as what he hates, a female, one that he's already been recorded impersonating. What a sad, dickless (very tiny penis), balless (testicular cancer due to constantly swallowing dopamine pills in a mistaken belief that I warned him about that they would replenish the chemical depleted by his daily cocaine intake), spineless (fucking identity stealing online predator coward) waste of life and blight upon the garden. I remember Carol, seated at the opposite end of the long table loaded with around twenty familiar faces, asking me to say a Grace prayer. So I did. Holding hands with those seated right and left. Silently. When I let go, I informed her that the prophet Jesus stated that we all have a permanent, individual tether to our own gods. I, as a Discordian, which, being the coolest of the three, she was familiar with, worshipped a female goddess that I did not pray to, but instead made offering and tributes to. For instance, when faced with what is obviously an important, life-changing decision, I will devise an on-the-spot random answer generator and stick to whatever the result given is. Also, that praying is more than repeating words and gestures, especially out loud, like little kids wearing pajamas knelt with hands clapped by the side of their bed. A prayer is more than just an interior dialogue reciting words. It is deliberate intention and attention that has a chance of reaching a deities' holy ears. Praying with someone may increase the likelihood of the messages of all involved reaching their individual targets, but following another's speech is certain to fall short of goal, if not offend. Offending gods by definition is a terrible idea, no matter how many multivitamins one has been ingesting. I am welcomed in your home and at your table and have no desire to muddle the celestial airwaves above your halo. By the way, Saint Earwig is my personal misreading of the city limit sign that was passed on the way to her residence. It actually said St. Hedwig. Saint Earwig sounds like a character in my submission to an HP Lovecraft mythos compilation. Remind me to write that down. So. I suppose I might as well click over to my Instagram feed now. Either there will be a stupid, poorly phrased and incredibly ill-conceived lie waiting there in my old friend's name or still nothing, which still wouldn't make sense. Unless I happened to interrupt Bumbling Turkey Bone while he was typing it and he shot his keyboard six times with Lone Ranger autographed revolver. So fucking lame. As if the woman who is actually one of three who held Kallisti in the hospital would ever somehow forget how to use a telephone and instead bizarrely hunt me down on Instagram, the creepy stalking grounds of Thomas Wayne Randle, failure mediocre. (Originally published Oct. 29, 2023 on DeviantArt.)