Gold | Writing Spool

Well one does, forget things. The coffee in the mug was hot — so by all accounts, it had just been filled but the memory was like driving home in a drunken black-out funk — in this case though, not much could have been hurt, shuffling to the pot and back.

Things were breaking down, the house too — water seeping in from the roof, doors leaving their jams, hot or cold air creeping in through every crack and crevice with no account to fix the things — at least not everything. This or that, here or there, but most things were useless to bother with since, quite frankly, it would be better to raze the thing and just start over from the beginning.

Great Uncle Larry had made a fortune not fixing anything in or on any of the many properties that all the ladies who had liked him left him and some that he had bought himself. Uncle Larry was a gay man and old ladies seem to love gay men.

So, possibly the best way to handle things is to let the house fall down upon itself and by the time that there are too many students at the school across the street, they might want to pay a fortune just to have the land — why bother throwing money in a pit. The only thing that seems to have any value in the world at all is something that is real, like a residence estate or the land that it is on.

All other opportunities, riddled with far too much complexing — if this, if that, when this, when that, by then, if ever — suggest that one buy, buy, buy something, anything but especially, and if you want to get rich, buy something that will hold its own — whatever that might be. Some less then one percent able to and they had it rigged for their and only their surety.

The millionaire distant uncle’s own second cousin had been swindled out of all of her gold in the blink of her negligent broker’s, possibly blacked-out funky eye by some Hunt brothers pushing things into corners — all of them full members of the surety rigging team. Gambling it really is. Distant uncle didn’t gamble.

“I believe that banking institutions are more dangerous to our liberties than standing armies. If American people ever allow private banks to control the issue of their currency..”, said Thomas Jefferson — but even broken clocks are right twice in every day and he was wrong on some accounts.

It seemed that he’d been right this time and that Americans might be doomed on the continent their father’s had conquered.

She found herself happy that, and even though sometime she wished she didn’t, she still had all her dolls and her doll’s clothes and they were all able to keep from getting too wet, too cold, too hot and that they weren’t all out in streets with no roof at all covering their real and plastic heads.

“If a country starts out in conquer mode, what should it expect?” she pondered.

If inflation and deflation and banks and corporations could work to take her things away, she would work to have nothing that they would likely want — probably not her dolls. That made her happy to think about — how to fix the fixers.