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(maybe it's the font I don't like)

Ah, Rudy.  That Rudy again.  As the officer says to Richard Hoover when he finds the stack of porn, God bless ya,' God bless ya.'  Kelly and Rudy treat my parents and me.  When dad joked he'd like five wives, Kelly retorted only if mom can have five, too.  Once, mom let it slip Joe Dassin may be handsome.  He doesn't let her forget, about Jordasen.

Rudy asked us in group to consider what book we'd like to start reading next week.  I felt like pleading, not another Latin man, please.  Rudy is Mexican; my dad told him he thought Cuban.  Rudy told group here's a clip of an interview with Don Miguel Ruiz.  I asked if he was a flamenco player and the words floated in the air.  I had been joking since the first breath of morning.  I was on edge.  People know not to fold a paper along its crease anywheres near me.  I felt like running out of the room blah-blah-blahhing with my hands wrapped around my head hearing him speak—on Oprah, with an accent, speaking of a woman who speaks her truth.

You can't mention the pool-man around him, you can't mention the cable guy; not the professor, not the tutor, not the director of the chandelier factory.  You'd think the awareness of the caricature would lessen the pain.  But it don't.  I think pain here is a most apt and sincere effort to convey a feeling, or state—a hapless frustration towards something so trivial to others, it's almost hilarious.  I could sense my counselor's grown tired of it.  I told him I could sense it and he conceded he felt helpless and frustrated.

Oprah asked about the people who make fun of her.  They don't even know me—what about those people?  He suggested they have nothing better going on.  I realized why I cringe each time we go through the Four Agreements.  There's a fifth one, I hear—that's beside the point.  Everything bounces off her.  She don't take nothing personal.  It's not her job.  He demonstrates every spec of her indifference, every God-loving act.  He cuts down my entire existence.  The son of a bitch praises her for not letting me bring her down to my size.  

I read an article on Yahoo! arguing against a 1984 world under Trump, as opposed to a Huxley vision.  It reminded me of the Orwell essay I read long ago.  A paper about using figures of speech seen in print, about the importance of sincerity in language; and if I can recall correctly, lazy in words, lazy in thought.  I wish they never invented vulgar words.  I wish I never allowed myself.  Just love—the whole and not the sequence.  I can't even be a darkness to her if she loves God.