SISTERS

COLLEGE WITH EXPECTATIONS OF A DOUBLE DEGREE, PATRIOTIC DUTY SERVED WITH INJURY INCURRED, AND INJURY ON A GOVERNMENT JOB WHILE WORKING.

Here I sit doing nothing but to experience the cringing pain of bone and sinew tearing away at my "Beyonce/Shakira" pelvis... uncovered by worker's compensation. I stagger through blurred pathways under feining recall of where it is I'm needing to go and for what past the indentation 'neath unafforded crochet weave of braid on beauty shots. I sit in the gift seat paid for to rest one older than me... my elder woman, now gone,

Do I hate my sisters, those of journalistic wonder appearing on my "must-see" screen through the mysticism of technological wonders? They bear the paper we all needed to be wrapped within to proceed before public scrutiny in our lusted position of scrutinizing the public.

Do I hate my sisters, those of Delta Sigma or Theta who tread in three-inch heeled stature amid glorified halls of brunch... lunch, and dinner malls made by them, for them, and touting whatever they... would have been "we" create as a necessity for a bourgeoning world crowd?

DO I HATE THOSE still in uniform and swinging on the charm of BEING WHAT WE NEED to save a world determined to push toward war and hatred of each other and on those with the audacity of forcing an authoritative mentality upon them like the children we left at home?

Do I hate? ...or do I envy what lays open to any able-bodied "man" and some women... with or without their hair in blond? ...skin ambified and spray painted with fine mist and four-inch heels (to be bigger than the rest) ... in fine office garb of snakeskins, fur and lace? Do I hate or do I envy what is lost and cannot be replaced? The license to act as glory. Clearance and permits to enter private and secret annals... press pass and stage pets. Justified rationale for bemoaned ire.

ALTERNATED PLANS FOR SUBSTITUTE BEING... "massaginist"... "school marm"... "prisoner review implement" ... "nutritionist" ... "farmer" ...authorist.

Do I hate my sisters who sit or stand unwavering on Beyonce' hips and think desired thoughts in summary of a world's need to desist? Or is this envy?

Unsure, I press a button and sit with them at breakfast... lunch or dinner. I laugh at the foibles they create and the girly thought matters of disgust and frustration (without need for support) "girl talk gone viral! ...and paid for it.

No Jane...

I'm lovin it... but need to be paid.