I work non-mainstream

I feel out of place. Don't you? I blame it on the gentrification of the struggle. But then my friends the real activists will say, Where have you been, anyway? NGOism is on its death throes, there is reason to celebrate. And still they don't want me undead, having survived the dogs.

Dear Mary, don't bye-bye me. When you're gone what will happen to me. What will happen to you.

I'm so sorry, but it's not as though I asked you to assassinate the Governor, did I? (I imagine you looking up, eyes lit up, on the verge of a smile. You will never say, Ye. Only my Father, you Father Slayer.)

Germie, did you see the letters they painted on the wall? Kill the rich, it says. I smell gunpowder, the proles rising. Class war is here again! I'm sorry I am such a leech, putting my weight around, but shame I long put away (Read Alice Walker), I am immune to it. Hubris as female agency (Read Beuwulf, Jesus, know your basics!).

I work with the angry, disaffected and disorganisized youth with worms in their heads a la... what's the name of that Jodie Foster starrer? Ya. Ala Robert de Niro. They're dismally illiterate, below the belt level, and hate the smartass bootlicking pretty girls who speak English and debate with the MILF. Thankfully, most of the time it's just my throat they want to slash.