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Talk Black Privately

I got a minute or two to write, so I’m'a do it. “Fight the real power,” said Sinead O’Conner, glowing
in the 90’s, on TV. Yes, she said it to them, the Roman Catholic Church, allied with the actions of actors for capital and terror. Ok, girl, I will.

I took a nap yesterday and dreamed that I saw this little child with her head blown backwards, like back at a 90 degree angle, from a bomb or grenade or a hard fling or fall. She was cracked as an egg. I rushed to her. I thought, I KNOW THEY SAW, AND I KNOW THEY SAY DON’T MOVE THE BODY, THE SPINE MIGHT BE BROKEN But I tried to lift her head anyway for some dignity. It felt like breaking a twig, breaking small bones, how they snapped as I lifted her head back to 0 degrees, and I thought, with mild to medium remorse, Goddammit they were right about that. But she’s probably dead, anyway.

Juniper

Juniper is 20 years old, and she looks like a regular Nancy. She looks composed thoughtful, and makes some appropriate comments while sitting in her swing. She might say, I don’t have to talk to you. She’ll say, “PU, what stinks, did you fart?” She’ll say hi to people by name. When she stands up to change locations (not a preferred moment), she twirls a full, slow 360 degrees for every other step. She wears a pull-up. She looks like a “young maid,” with two dark braids and a freckled nose, eyes that blink and give the illusion of involvement.

Last week, when I had to help her move into the kitchen because a fellow resident was starting to smash and punch and throw and break things, there was no skipping the twirls, but I tried to rush them, and cover for her. We sat in the kitchen together for 10 minutes, talking. I made the mistake of engaging with her request to watch Annie, which for me, and most people, would mean, “soon” or “sometime,” but for her meant, right now. So she said Annie about 300 times at the end, as I started to get tired with it and need to switch or simply going into a spaced out zone. It became intolerable, Annie Annie Annie Clifford (the Big Red Dog?) Vigorous head nodding, Annie Annie Annie watch Annie? But for a while we just talked, saying hi, and talking about the imaginary smell.

Her: it stinks, did you fart? Me: PU, what’s that smell? Her: What’s that smell? It smells like fruit. Me: Did you fart? PU, it stinks. Her: What’s that smell? Me: It smells like hamburgers Her: It smells like hamburgers *smiles

Upstairs: crash bang, crash bang

Her: damn Me: damn Her: What time is it? Me: It’s almost time Her: It’s almost time. What time is it? Me: It’s 4:30. Her: It’s almost time.

*crash bang

Her: are you hungry? Me: It’s almost time Her: What’s that smell? PU did you fart? Me: What time is it? Her: What time is it? It’s almost time. Me: Are you hungry? What time is it? Her: Did you fart? It smells like fruit Me: It smells like fruit Her: Are you hungry? Me: It’s almost time

Her: watch Annie? and that’s where I lost control of the thread, but the other kid became calm enough to come to dinner, and so that’s what we did next.

“I don’t have to talk to you.” She says that because like everything else she says, someone in her life said it A LOT. They mimic and communicate more tangentially than Jesus with his little parables. Follow the steps of the script to something concrete, as a general rule.

Last night when I got to Will’s house (lives in a small mansion on rich side of city limits), his sister and mom was fawning over him, trying to help him calm down. They said he wasn’t happy with anything and couldn’t choose anything. I suggested “go sit in bed, watch TV,” because it’s the baseline place to start. His main perseveration was going to the bathroom and then changing his mind, leading his caretaker in maddening circles.

I have a similar IBS situation as he does, for different reasons, but I know a bloated belly when I see one (usually just looking down at my feet), so I dug my fingers into the belly at different point like how my old chiropractor and his assistant did to me. Finding the valve, flexing it open, hearing the gurgle of moving fluid. He said, :wow and whoa. Then we stood up to sing and dance to “happy and you know it,” then I suggested we use the basement (it’s finished) bathroom just to see if a location change would help things move, and it worked.

Not a great poop, still loose and appearance of heat *see Chinese Traditional Medicine, but at least he got some out. I hate wiping up a diarrhea butt, but a caretakers gotta do it. I helped him take a bath later, and I make sure he’s clean and once out of the bath, dry. I feel like I give him the best cleaning of his caretakers. He looks sad when I wash his hair because some water always drops into his face or eyes, but other than that, he doesn’t fight the bath, or any of it. He wants to be clean. He just cannot get his hands to do the hand things necessary, that connection is severed. Hands are for flapping. But my hands are for working, and cleaning.

I think the most important thing I do though is function as a verbal filter, where I like translate every event into a 2-3 word descriptive phrase, that we repeat and make into songs.

I look forward to working with Juniper again, because she’s funny, and her scripts are fire.

I left a Part Out

To James, who wanted to start a family (a new one) in 1993, with me, and I wasn’t ready. Last night, when I came over, and told your friends and girlfriends to fuck off, so we could have some privacy, I was aware of my cycle. I knew I bled 3-5 days ago, and was at my most fertile point, perhaps the very last point, the very last menses, having already been diagnosed as post menopause. The shit paused, and actually stopped. Then it started up again. Rebecca laughed, and named her baby “Isaiah.” “Facts, I’m too old to be pregnant!” she told Mary. That’s why Isaiah means “laughter.” Nobody was laughing when I showed up at James house last night. None of them were worth worrying about; I told them all to fuck off, get lost. After we did the sex, which I mentioned was like 30 thrusts more or less. (Probably less), I held the stuff inside, and once I left his house, thinking, (super pissed off) that I KNOW he didn’t come, why wasn’t he more interested and invested, at least enough to secure some privacy?

But he must’ve ejaculated, because I was excited. I did it. I pounced on my last chance to conceive. I messed with my flower, and I knew some stuff made it, but also, white petals of something unknown were creeping out of the hole. What’s that? I pushed it, not wanting to lose the sperm, but get rid of the chunks, whatever they were. They were food, like flower-petal pasta, or seafood, something weird.

I left a Part Out

For James, who wanted to start a family (a new one) in 1993, with me, and I wasn’t ready. Last night, when I came over, and told your friends and girlfriends to fuck off, so we could have some privacy, I was aware of my cycle. I knew I bled 3-5 days ago, and was at my most fertile point, perhaps the very last point, the very last menses, having already been diagnosed as post menopause. The shit paused, and actually stopped. Then it started up again. Rebecca laughed, and named her baby “Isaiah.” “Facts, I’m too old to be pregnant!” she told Mary. That’s why Isaiah means “laughter.” Nobody was laughing when I showed up at James house last night. None of them were worth worrying about; I told them all to fuck off, get lost. After we did the sex, which I mentioned was like 30 thrusts more or less. (Probably less), I held the stuff inside, and once I left his house, thinking, (super pissed off) that I KNOW he didn’t come, why wasn’t he more interested and invested, at least enough to secure some privacy?

But he must’ve ejaculated, because I was excited. I did it. I pounced on my last chance to conceive. I messed with my flower, and I knew some stuff made it, but also, white petals of something unknown were creeping out of the hole. What’s that? I pushed it, not wanting to lose the sperm, but get rid of the chunks, whatever they were. They were food, like flower-petal pasta, or seafood, something weird.

narcissism

i still think i’m one of the world’s greatest poets at least of my time

Devilish

I used to want to be honorable: not steal, not lie, not be late, but no more. I don’t follow their rules anymore, none of them. I stole 100$ or more of groceries from Giant Bird yesterday, why? Because I paid 100$ or more for my oil change at Valvoline, and I needed to make up for it. This is what I did: I planned to pay. I brought my own bags. I filled them up. I pushed my cart, with my full bags, to the cash out lanes, but alas, there was no one to ring my shit up. Some were ringing themselves up, (definitely stealing 1/3 items), and no one was watching, and also, the way they set the store up, you come out from produce at the wrong end, and have to turn back. Am I turning back? Hell naw. I’m not making no U-turns for the patriarchal capitalistic Big Bird, and I just walked the fuck out. The fuck you gonna do, though. Nothing, that’s what I thought. Because you’re watching the black people with the hawk eye, and ignoring me, and I’m that white bitch who steal everything in a second, buh bye. I did, and I’m proud of it, facts. I don’t owe Big Bird nothing. They aint done shit for their people, farmers or shoppers, and fuck em. Spending all that money on air conditioning to air condition your meat, let me help you. I’ll take it off your hands. Shouldn’t trust any white people, that’s on you.

Today, I loved Will. We sang, exercised, took walks outside in the nature that money can buy, and ate meals and snacks. Every day, it’s his penis, in the bath, in the shorts, on the billboard: penis penis penis. Like a mother, I want him to get it, he deserves to get it for himself. But he doesn’t like using his hands, and never will. Will never will.
I think of “the World According to Garp,” (prototypical fate driving things), and also Jenny and Forest. Was she wrong to do all that? I never thought so. But then I heard people capping on her, like she’s your basic predator. White women prey on, pray on, anyone with need. I’d never do that to Will, but sometimes I think about climbing onto his bed, because it’s big, and we’re both getting sleepy, and I think, could we cuddle. Would he go to sleep if I spooned him? Does he realize I’m old af? Does he understand his own age? (no). And I think of that novel: Shame, by Shalamon Rushdie. Did you ever read it? If you read the title, how did you resist? I needed that book. The main character, a real weirdo, falling in love with the autistic daughter, the intellectually disabled one, in fact, he did love her. But he should’ve left her tf alone, based on what happened. He married her, yes, but that night, or some time later, an evil spirit (her) whipped through the farm and the barn, ripping the heads off all the chickens, dozens or hundreds of them. When he saw the chickens, he knew she’d be back for him. What did he do so wrong other than loving her? Examine your own shame, if you need to know.

Love, Sex, Home.

last night, I turned out a text message from James from 1993. Talking about how bad he needed sex. The message reached me in 2026 where I could imagine this desire. I wanted it too. I wandered back to the old neighborhood and ride up to the family house. I’ve done this before in dreams quite a few times. There’s always a lot of people around, but this time there was also a lot of James friends and it was a party house. When he approached me, I was horrified by his haircut. It looks like a punishment haircut. If you didn’t work with black kids before you don’t know what this is, but this is when the buzzer makes you look bad. The clippers just haphazard lead cuts off chunks and leaves a crazy hairline. He still had the chunks of hair all over him. So what the fuck happened to your hair? He shrugged. Later on, I noticed that he was wearing ripped up jeans on top of black lace tights. I said, you know you’re not the only black kid who likes heavy metal. We went up to his bed, past all the friends, and maybe a girlfriend or two, and I was trying to get right to it. But the bed was like these slippery stack of mattresses in a roommate popped out from under them. Like an old white guy in his 40s. It wasn’t time for bed yet they said, but I told him you need to go right back under there. I told people to stop coming in. He tasted me and considered like, not bad! I could smell it too, a little metallic. I gave him a passionate kiss, but he backed off. He gave me a medicinal lip ointment, telling me this will heal your cold sores. He asked me, did you tell anyone else? I was embarrassed of the cold sores, but also like, fine. We don’t need to kiss. We are in the bed and he asked me, can you take it from the back? I said I really don’t know, laughing. It’s been a minute. We didn’t fully get to it only for like 30 seconds, which is probably how long it actually lasted when we were 14. It didn’t hurt. But it was interrupted, and I had to move on. I got mad about that and all the friends and girlfriends being around bc they wouldn’t leave us alone. I wondered, what if what he really wants is for me to hang out with his friends? I didn’t want to. I left. I thought about how different I was since I left with so much confidence 100% sure it could be anything I was planning to be like famous rockstar, poet, person who starts a school, teach teaching sounded easy. 30 years later, I could admit that it beat me. I sent him an angry text saying, I thought you wanted the sex!

So I was gonna walk home because I only lived two blocks away. But the scene changed into New York. Someone called, Steph! Steph! And it was Jason. He was riding like a full body board because he was a fully dead looking human. Like a prone wheel wheelchair/skateboard. He barely stopped to talk and I didn’t want him to. Dark bruises over a skeletal frame. From a few yards back, I thought oh my God that’s Jason and I was excited, but by the time he rolled by, I didn’t try to stop him. He had these bandages all around his waist, and I could see the wound weeping through it. On his body board, he was rolling under cars and everything like through the traffic.

The rest of the dreams I spent trying to get home. The landscape varied between Minneapolis and New York. I seem to be getting farther and farther from the city center whereas I thought my home was only a couple blocks away. Home receded from me and the landscape grew. I asked people I came across, bro do you know where there’s even a subway station? Do you know how to get to Brooklyn? I even heard these two girls talking about Bedford Stevenson and I was like yeah yeah so do you know how to get back there? But they were just posers and tourists and they had no idea. I was so tired and at some point realized I didn’t even have a phone. Didn’t see any cabs passing by. Really in the middle of nowhere. Then I wandered up into these apartments. There’s a lot of people living there and they all had big bedrooms, but the building was old and unlevered and had strange features like a ring of three bricks running around the perimeter of each room and apartment. I got into the school elevator that was like carved out with copper and not in any decidable cubicle shape. It was like a wonky pentagram shape with uneven line segments, and kind of rounded out. It glowed it was beautiful. I wanted to take a picture. I pass through libraries and ceremonies and I kept asking everyone how to get back to the street and how to get back home.

Then I had two repeat her dreams, although the whole thing is sort of a repeat with development. I had the missing suitcase dream where I’ve lost luggage on my travels and I go back to the station and I’m asking about it but this time I looked up and I saw my big old black suitcase in the storage and I was begging this lady to let me get it down, but she wouldn’t help me.

Then I had the dream where I missed my flight or bus because it doesn’t wait for me except this time I made it by running as fast as I can the minute they say run, it’s here, (even though a bunch of other people are doing the same thing and forming a messy line, and abandoning all my luggage. What the fuck I’m gonna wear when I get there? at least I didn’t lose money on the ticket this time.

Making Walk With Will

Will and I go on walks when I work with him. The whole time I worked with him are almost all of it, will holds my hand. I tried to use the opportunity, every opportunity, for communication practice, and I realized on the walks, about Will’s hands. His hand is alive in my hand. It’s like no hand holding I’ve ever had. The hand talks to me. I try to let him make all the decisions about how far we walked, when and where we turn around and go back. Before Will finds the words, his hand starts telling me. His hands are soft and sensitive and pale, like an aristocrat Will looks like an aristocrat, happily, chubby, a hot tea, Italian face, blonde hair and nice blue eyes. His heart shaped face is now emphasized with a second chin because his meds making him fat. That’s one of the reasons I have instructions to take him on walks. Honestly, he takes me on the walks. I have leader house disease, which means recurrent plantar fibroma growth, and I’ve had two surgeries and I still I’m trying to get the scar tissue under control. My walking is very off-balance and uneven. But I discovered that will is the same off balance that I am, his inside foot flops down hard and the outside foot lingers too long in the air. Every time I shower, I work on shaving down the calluses on my feet so that I can live out my life without wheelchair stuff. Will also has a pretty big callus on his outside foot on his heel. Since I’ve become a debridement expert, I wish I could offer to shave it down. Who knows why we both slam down on the inside foot and avoid the outside foot. I noticed that when we get into a rhythm, it’s like no one could beat us in the three legged race. Leaning on each other, we can get into a walk-in groove. Sometimes there’s no groove and he’s dragging me along or I’m limping pathetically to keep up with him. I say a few things in my normal voice to him on these walks things I wouldn’t say in front of his family. I try not to say too much or he will get confused and upset. The risk is that I make too many references at once. But I told him about my foot and I thanked him for helping me walk. To say where we’re getting into our three legged groove, and as usual, I was focusing all my attention on trying to make my feet walk the same, and I noticed that between our two hands, there was a little bit of pressure that was almost like a crutch where we were pushing off each other for our weaker points of our step. Her hands really talk to each other and here they are forming a crutch that helps us speed up, rather than being left behind, which is always my fear. I mean, I feel like I have been left behind a lot. Or, I feel like people would leave me behind. I’m slower than most people realize. Besides, holding hands the thing I do the most with well that I’ve ever done with anyone is eye contact. If you didn’t realize that he’s considered low functioning autistic so none of the interactions really follow normal social rules, including eye contact. Sometimes we stare at each other, and I do a little low-key rocking that imitates his rocking, and I almost get lost in his eyes. I think, oh my God, I can see you in there and you can see me. Our ages don’t matter at all because he’s never gonna have a normal relationship and I’m close to 50. I don’t wanna date well, but I can’t help but notice the levels of intimacy available even from just staring into someone’s eyes for a long time. Or finding your rhythm, walking together, linked physically and spiritually. Not mentally. Mentality isn’t everything. Compared to a computer we’re all slow and stupid. The smarter you are the more you put your eggs in the book basket. But there are things to experience that are outside of it, and outside of any prescription, beyond and beneath words. If Will says anything spontaneous, it’s usually a really strange sounding wow, whoa, etc. If he makes a genuine request, it said in a tiny whisper. But when he plays the tapes of conversations, he’s heard it sounds like fast-forward on loud. I like when he rocks, flaps, and reviews conversation tapes, which is how I think of it. Intermittently between the sound of a fast forwarded tape, little phrases come out that let you know what it’s from like, “thank you, well, congratulations, you’re right!” things people sat at the dinner table. I’m nosy sometimes they’re an interesting family. I’m like a fly on the wall. Sometimes they drive me crazy overall I think they’re good people. Of course his mother ruined him and is also the person who loves him the most, and would do anything for him. She spoils the fuck out of him. She made him the head of the family. She’s an aristocratic queen, and she made him the prince and also the baby, forever. I love Will. I won’t even put it in any type of category. I’ve never had such a moving hand holding experience where every little movement of the fingers was so important. Sometimes I feel like he’s Helen Keller. But he’s not blind. It’s like he’s language blind. It’s like he’s an animal, an elephant or something we don’t understand.

GRACE

Sometime around 2005, I worked with this young (late 20’s) gal named Grace, and I never forgot her. She was light skinned green eyes, with freckles and African-textured hair, and she lived in Queens, with her family who spoke Spanish. We were both assistants, like secretaries and receptionists, at this Zionist shoe company in Manhattan. I got that job through a temp agency and she probably did, too. It was a pretty easy job. Last night I dreamed I had orders to process for them and was trying to remember the formula’s to convert the data and enter it into As400, for logistics. Three numbers, like a fraction with an extra head, then enter enter enter, copy copy copy. They said I was fucking up stuff at the end, but who knows? They found out I disliked them, before I fully found out. About Grace, though, she came and went. Back then, my name was Katy Love. And we were friends. She told me her mom was dying, like now. And she took her mom’s opiate pills, and shared them with me. Then it only took 1 Vicodin to set me in a painless cloud for pleasant data entry tasks. Or walking across the city. Or meeting someone new. She would share with me, from a rolled up tissue in her pocket. Then her mom died, and she turned grayish. One morning maybe a week or month after her mom died, she told me someone introduced her to something “way better.” She was so excited, like she wasn’t daunted by the risks. I was. I never tried h more than once, and that was years before I met Mich.

I don’t think she worked there too much longer, and I started looking for new pills-plug. And I got ripped off. And I stole from people, their medicine closets. And it stopped working, no- that wasn’t till later. There were at least a couple years where I could count on pain killers to cope. And Michelle, my “wife,” was technically my next plug, her proximity to it. And bringing in crack cocaine, which made me feel “normal.”

Next, I met Michelle, another very cool, young gal, only a little younger than me, and she liked me. She was in remission, took suboxone, smoked cigarettes, and didn’t like drinking or weed. She gave me the rest of whatever pills she had bc she said they didn’t do anything for her. The main thing we had in common (besides taking risky, desperate attempts to escape our depression) is writing. She had dozens of lifetime journals and I read them all, while sitting at the reception desk answering the phone, or on the train. They documented her ups and downs, and were evidence that life kept throwing heroin at her, no matter her attempts to run. Her first year in college, her roommate just happened to have needles, etc. in her desk drawer. What are the chances for her? She wrote about all of it, falling in love with straight girls, music, hope, suicidal tendencies, and on top of that, we wrote each other LONG emails. Somewhere I still have a printout of all our emails. She was hyper-verbal. She loved psychology (trying to be a social worker). Michelle was the super subject of my first big blog on google. The whole time, I was still obsessed with another gal/guy- became trans. But the heart has lots of room, especially for grief. Michelle- I really thought she loved me. When she left, she forgot a huge bottle of tramadol that she’d gotten through mail order, Canada or Thailand or something, and I took them all, one handful at a time. And that’s how that summer passed. And I still got straight A’s in graduate school. And I put off for tomorrow what could and should be done today.

Thoughts on “nonverbal” Autism with Intellectual Disability, etc.

I spent 7 hours on the block yesterday, the inpatient residential. The last 3 was with 2 particular young adults, while shadowing the house mother. The majority of the time, “Vlad” was in the kitchen, cooking an assortment of things, for tonight, and tomorrow, to pack for work, at his internship. He used a lot of Lawry’s, that I could smell clearly. I taught him how to defrost meat in the microwave according to weight. In retrospect, I really like that kid. I, too, spend hours in the kitchen, prepping, cooking, and cleaning, and just for my own pleasure and health. I go all out, just for moi. I’m truly BLESSED with good food. I’ll never stop being grateful. I gained a couple more pounds. Like Cardi B say, “this ass is thick like peanut butter/ bitches jelly about it!” hahha facts. Well, you know it aint forever, when you’re eating this good.

So while Vlad was cooking his ribs with Lawrey’s seasoning salt to a crisp, I was in the hang-out area with… Egor. Egor has a ice-queen face, beautiful blond hair, blue eye features, like me (not the bluest eye, thank you very much). Egor was the front-runner for attention for me all day, because he was so over 100% disgusting. The message was clearly: stay THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME! Hahaha. He was almost naked, with loose pants that he rolled up into speedo coverage style. I guess he was mad that he didn’t want to be outside but all the kids had to be outside for the afternoon, for reasons of balance. Can’t be on ipad 24.7. To prove he was mad, and to cope with it, he engaged extra hard (imo- “doing the most”) in stims he knew are disgusting to people based on people yelling, “hands!” and “ew, wtf!” and running away from him. Rectal digging, swipes the genital area, rubs his fingers across his face, creating a thin mustache of poo and dirt, because he’s also pacing on cement or in the dirt, and walking a scooter, so there’s a mustache or extra-smile across his entire face that’s brown. He looks in rapture, to be honest, minus the skin stains. Also bruised deeply on the feet, all elbows, sharp spots, he’s thin. FOR 50 OUT OF EVERY 60 SECONDS, HE EMITS LOOOOUUUUD, MIDRANGE VOCALIZATIONS LIKE “UUUUHHH AHHHH OHHHH UMMHH OOOOEEEE,” etc. It almost drowns out all the other kids in the backyard “play” area. All of the young adults are stimming, but Egor is the dirtiest, scariest, and loudest, so I steady observed him, while keeping my peripheral vision open to potential attacks from the other 10 or so psychopaths aka nonverbal autistic orphans in a group home. I call them psychopaths because they are. Maybe sociopath is better. In a few words: the “relationship” you make with them is based upon the creation of a safe-script landscape that acts like a bridge. Don’t trust them with a single atom-level thing, and definitely don’t look to them for affection. They are demon children, and I relate to them.

So Vlad was cooking in the other room, and Igor is sitting happily and much more cleanly (the house mother helped him shower) in the Tv room, everything’s pretty clean (she’s a good house mother, and talkative, which helps me). She makes a frozen pizza with freezer french fries for dinner, but not till after Vlad done cooking food that’ll last him the next 24 hours. He’s responsible. But the whole time he’s cooking, Igor is moaning and emitting mid-range, VERY LOUD vocalizations (not approximating words) while engaging in a whirlwind of bathroom-genital-1 year old sensory development type behaviors.
It’s Igor’s volume that annoys Vlad. For 45 minutes, Igor yelled expletives against Vlad and named all the specific violent things he would do to get him to shut the fuck up, including hang him, nail him down, shoot him in the face, hit him with a 2x4. He called him a faggot, cunt, bitch, nigger, (many times- obviously one of his favorite insults- confused white boy), and the insults were plentiful, descriptive, like he had a talent for making threats. For some reason, maybe the house-mother’s attitude, I didn’t worry about anything. I stretched out on the couch and started reading Benjamin Percy novel, Red Moon, on the pleather couch. I contemplated a hook in the ceiling where a swing used to hang, thinking, wow, if I wanted to be the world’s greatest asshole, I would. And I made that joke to the house mother, who pointed out if anybody did that, it be on camera, we laughed in a way I thought, I like you, I’d be friends with you, girl. You’re brave. You’re strong. You’re about to go to sleep with these 2-3 human reptiles (reptile brain). Later (yesterday?) I thought how much I need people like Vlad, who go on and on with a bit they don’t even know is a bit- thank you for swearing. Thank you for being my little brother, brother. You might do better than I did, because you’re a boy, a guy. The world is terrified of witches. But the house mothers are obvious witches. I hope I can fit in with them. Show them I’m not slow in all ways. I’m fast when something happens. I just have to stay regulated. “I must not fear, fear is the mind-killer.” (Dune) That’s a horribly not comforting mantra. I’ll go with, even if I fear, I’mma go hard as mf and protect my babies. Make a mf sorry he picked the wrong one.