They Roast Now, Open-Faced, Until They Themselves Pluck Their Heads Off

L & I drive to York Saturday morning, I-495 to I-95 to I-695 to I-93 across the Mason-Dixon Line to PA-124 east to PA-24, to pick up Spidey certainly, Nugget maybe, L's friend, the cat rescuer, is crazy about Nugget, if she wants him she gets him, and then we get to see which other rescue kitten chooses us, I want this scenario, please please please. You may not know this, but I don't broil and baste in anger 24-7, as much as I adore broiling and basting in my anger. Did you know there's a new Swans live album?Me neither, the fuck, I say, but not in anger. My anger. I'm not angry you're not as angry as me, I'm not asking you to be as angry as me, please believe me. My goddamn free blogging platform's blogroll feed is fucked up again, I'm impotently furious but not furious enough to move to substack, there's hope for me yetAnger trumps despair, rimshot. In all seriousness, anger is holy with silly. Phew, in the ten seconds after bingeing on Swans and Lambchop I gave three seconds…