Things to blog off one’s chest

I’m pretty content with having a blog going again. It helps one to get one’s mind off things. It helps to focus on the things that matter.

One’s Father

Take my father. He’s 96. He’s in a care home in the abject country of my exile. I got him in there, moved him from the one side of the country to the other, near to me, where he wanted to be, rather than near to my elder brother (whom he likes) and (particularly) my eldest sister (whom he hates as much as she hates him). His mind is doing alright. His musculature isn’t and that includes the parts he needs for speech. I go to him every weekend, on Saturday and on Sunday. I help him urinate. I watch horrible right-wing TV shows with him (I would write him down right of center), volume way up. I wipe his mouth. I clean his electric shaver (thank heavens one can tap-rinse these things nowadays). I read the financial paper or a book or do some work on my laptop, as he nods off with the TV show blasting full throttle.

They have a care home physician of course. They are always trainees or something, or former substance-abusing doctors being reintegrated into the profession for all I know. No one does this for a permanent calling; I wouldn’t, and I’m an upstanding human being, a woman no less. The latest croaker in the fast-moving line of succession called me last week. He mentioned something about my Dad’s mental capacity. He sounded offensive about it, aggressive even. This man was being aggressive even before I would have thought of saying anything in my father’s defense. This accusatory medico wanted to lay down the law on my father and on me, even before we had time to put in a word of remonstration that he was old and, yes, needy, a bastard occasionally, but mentally fighting fit. And I thought, if you hate old people so much as to be aggressive in advance in discussing anything about them with their folk, then just POQ and leave said folk to take care of their own.

Artificial Intelligence. Stupid, Really

Who hasn’t noticed that AI is artificial, yes, very much so, but seldom intelligent, far from? It’s because its root algorithms have to originate someplace, and more often than not that is in the flaccid minds of uninteresting and unimaginative people, lacking laterality. I’m a big fan of Sheryl Crow. That’s not just because she wrote and performs Soak Up The Sun. It’s because I have the impossible sexual fantasy of being a woman as beautiful and acccomplished as Sheryl Crow, singing Sweet Child O’ Mine and being fucked while at it or promptly after it. This is very much the fantasy of a troubled mind. Contrary to what Spotify AI seems to think, loving Sheryl Crow does not mean that I’m an old fogey doting on 90s pop, Alanis Morissette, John Mellencamp, and Carole King. In this very specific case it just means that I’m a lunatic. My madness aside I always only want what’s newest or what I get off on. And yes, there’s some old stuff I get off on. I get off on The Girl Who Lives on Heaven Hill by Hüsker Dü, and on a live version of Twist And Shout by the Beatles, with their young boys’ voices crushed by the uninterrupted screaming of even younger women. I orgasm spontaneously on that.

AI refuses to factor in madness. If it started doing that, they would kill it.

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