Advice to listen to… a great man said, “Make Your Bed.” When was the last time I did that? If I had, I wouldn’t be cleaning vomit off the bedroom floor from V. B knew better, even on his last days. Ahem, Emergence Day. Braxton’s Sound Advice, Virgil.
Saturday, September 21, 2024
Meditation 082 ~Braxton’s Sound Advice, Virgil~
Hey Lady Lu,
I am a Billionaire right now… And “This Is America.” Money talks. But do I? To my sons, or “pretty, pretty girls.”
My longing to talk about my Braxton is like a broken record, especially after Emergence Day. It feels like an eternity since then. If only I had the means, Lady Lunalesca, ‘Every Day Will Be Like a Holiday.’ The music would drown out these thoughts.
But if I’m not listening to Childish Gambino or William Bell, how about Bobby Byrd… “Try It Again.” I broke my abstinence streak again, rattlingly off dirty, depraved, disgusting thoughts on a brunette. She can’t hear me. And neither can my pillow, Lady Lunalesca. But aren’t I the one that needs to listen… listen, hear, and understand? I do try.
But to who, what, and why? “It’s a wicked world that we live in.” Lunalesca?
Am I done with the radio yet? And there are only so many times I can listen to Succubus Lord, Satan’s Sorority Girls, or the Bikini Days series. And if it isn’t some work about girls sans clothes. Then I’m getting angry. For now, Lunalesca, all I can hear is the sound of my breathing.
Please! How is that different from any other day? When Virgil has me stressing out. Lunalesca, Virgil broke his streak of not getting sick on the carpet. He couldn’t warn me he was ill when we were outside mere minutes ago. I’m not a mind reader or a prophet, Lunalesca.
But according to a particular program, I could be a robot. It said “AI Generated Text.” Should I be flattered? I feel dead, not electronic.
I’d be lying if I said I haven’t had AI help when it comes to, let’s say, Sofía’s Nightmare. Not that I’ve been working on that these past few days. I’ve been listening to the demands of my Day Job. I swear, Lunalesca, we need a new plague. I listen to the absolute worst people.
I find myself among the worst people. And then there’s Ma. When I’m not succumbing to my body’s worst inclinations, I fall ill like Virgil. The thought of texting Ma about a bill ties my stomach in knots. Today is the day, isn’t it, Lunalesca? The day I prove to be her failure son… Again.
Lunalesca, as a forty-year-old, I have no wise words. Advice for my past or future self…
Braxton’s Sound Advice, Virgil
1329 Days Without B III, Day 770 of Virgil’s Arrival
B.L.M. Braxton’s Life Matters,
Will