Last blog is in authoritarian limbo. Guess I mixed the wrong words together, dead and f-o-r-u-m. Not referencing this one, but another. Lesson learned, but not followed.
This blogs like a fishing line, I send it out every now and then hoping for a nibble. Else I would write in a little journal and lock it up safe somewhere. Why here? I don't know. It shouldn't be here. I'm fishing in protected waters. Indigenous land, and not the friendly kind; the old kind. The scalp your father and mother in front of you while you're begging them to stop kind. Shit, I forgot natives can't be evil, only the white man. Hah, but I didn't say where continent I was fishing in!
Mr. Leather jacket and toothpick, big bad wolf on campus. Waiting to unleash his wrath on the little pup who can't hold his head high enough. They always like the little ones. They never choose the ones that can fight back. Them white devils.
Little boys with no confidence. Raped, bullied, beaten. Might get a few words of pity, but then it's onto the next topic. Ladies forget that men prey on men. Like all of us aren't victims to the same assholes you've denounced the entire gender for. The entire race for. White men, the curse. Take a DNA test so you can spout that you're 1 percent feather striker. Somehow that's racist, but white devil past your eyes just fine. More a bigot than a racist. Never really cared about the skin pigment, or eye slant. Drum beating is universal; don't need a feather in my cap to enjoy peace neither.
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