I don’t know where you got the idea that I don’t like truth or why you would settle in to entertain such a concept, maybe you are putting on or just confused, but preference is entirely human, it isn’t a fault, it only becomes a distortion when it is presented as proving that someone is better over another, which isn’t the case.   I knew some Iowa men who were better at me in maintaining their poise, they were stronger, they moved with heavy bearing, but patiently, men who could work and love and adjust to change without too much difficulty, aware of the need to make something of themselves, but not overly self-conscious of doing it, and they often as not partnered up with homely girls of the countryside, they didn’t have to, they got around, of a sort I wouldn’t, and it didn’t make me think I was better than them in any way, far to the contrary, I reflected with some gravity that something may very well be lacking in me that I wouldn’t take up with the sort of girls they were entirely at home with, shared their life stories, laughed together, had children, spent weekends together fulfilled.

       My love for King Crimson as a young person had nothing to do, it turned out, you wouldn’t have persuaded me of this at the time, with their deserving love of any sort, far to the contrary, it was about my very deep capacity for love, so it isn’t fair for someone who sees through the superficial status quo allowed by a beauty queen in the conventional sense to look down on me and most of those wouldn’t unless I started it.  It is entirely proper that a good, intelligent man should have a good life and a good relationship, and marriage and do good works, to be rewarded by his peers and shared with, in the manner JFK deserved, but it isn’t in the least bit better and far worse for a man, like Chris and Rosa, for example, to claim they exemplify some honor code which proves them better and me deficient which they viciously set out to do. Both of them aided and abetted one of the most terrible criminal acts in our nation’s history and they did so smirking, vilifying and laughing at someone they brutally, brutally tortured.

      Now, especially when I was very battered, had a neurotrauma, I might have been capable of sleeping with someone’s estranged girlfriend, but I wouldn’t do it deliberately as a mathematical act of Christian science, and then pretend that’s not what I did for fear of being caught.  Take Rosa and her genius committee again, snickering that they were friends, which is just a polite expression for faceliars in those quarters, trying to help me get out of the box that Leslie built, when they weren’t, they were trying to put the last nails in the coffin of that box.  They ignored my innocent both with Leslie and with Rosa and the signal significance of Chin I’s name. They acted for our nations’ enemies, they pretended they didn’t and when they couldn’t hide that they did it anymore they set out to blame me and called me humiliated, and them my betters.

      Obviously JFK got a rotten deal, but you won’t convince anyone that loved him that Hitler was his better just because his ingenuity was put to effect in the murder.   How does being a hotrod betraying the fabric of our society make someone like Chris a hero? It doesn’t. God help them and good riddance. Just because I loved a woman like Rosa doesn’t make her an attractive person when she turns out to be a Hitler troll hired and lobbed like a tart for a vicious cur like Donald Trump, it’s vomitbag stuff, no matter how many avenues you keep looping it.  You can’t loop a noose around my neck to prove you are a better man. Rosa prefers you, let’s leave it at that, I prefer not having you or her kind around me to maximum limit that it can be avoided, and your dishonorable, depraved obsession with me goes far in showing why I feel the same about the horses asses in King Crimson.

        Obviously there is more to this because it isn’t really about Chris it is about Obama.  A professor whom I agree with twice as often as I disagree told me that Obama being black automatically made him the better man.   He dances with Oliver Diaperman the Ripper Stone to that music. He was chosen for his Osama Obama Baloney to index Greg’s Auto’s at Midori Teriyaki, yes indeed, he was, because Sama is a Japanese suffix for politically correct, and he says the joke is on me.   I’ve explored his idea of a joke a few times, it’s bizarre childishness in times of national tragedy, evoking it for accomplice in atrocity, a childish joke, to adjust and acquaint his munificence as the Lord of the Sceptre.

      He presented Wifey as the Texas wife in Michener, Italian and disloyal as an act of pity and disdain for her doting husband, living in shame and used this to create sibling loyalty among the troops, who laughed at little Jimmy, “You like King Crimson, hahahahaha, THEY DON’T LIKE YOU HAHAHAHAHA.”    He wangled terroristic abuse of the neuroplasm as a cautionary Catholicism about the blue cloak of the deceived husband, jumping up to turn on the light like the little man in the fridge, deploying the sophisticated magic of neuroplastic ventriloquism to gurgle, “think before you speak,” and the “joke’s on you.”   Calling such virulent brain injury torment by psychologically consistent was a very serious crime, making it art by labyrinthian tactics won’t make putting a wreath at Bitberg Belsen respect for the Black man or our fallen President, but the joke’s on me all the same.