I’m thinking a lot of things about the shooting at the Trump rally in Pennsylvania, and most of them aren’t fit to be published.
When the Supreme Court ruled earlier this month on presidential immunity, I said out loud to two people that someone was probably going to try to shoot him, seeing how willing McConnell, SCOTUS, and Republicans have been to slather him in Country Crock before he wriggles through the cracks.
I don’t say that to toot my own horn because I’m so smart, but I say it to illustrate how predictable all of this is.
It’s Saturday night that I’m writing this, by the way, and I don’t have all the details. I’m avoiding the speculative “reporting.”
Oh. I’m sure the Sunday shows will be a vomitous mess of worthless blame assignment in the morning too. Remind me to crawl under a rock when I wake up tomorrow.
I saw the Dilbert guy say this was all Biden’s doing. Absolutely disgusting. His lies can go in the trash next to all the electeds’ maggot-riddled thoughts and prayers.
I’m at the bottom of the snark barrel. There’s nothing down here but despair.
Someone is going to say we are better than this, but don’t you believe it. We are exactly this.
I’ve only taken two 1/2 pills so far, but I feel different inside. Couldn’t say for sure if it’s the hope or the hydroxychloroquine, but damn. I want food. I feel connected to my memories. I don’t feel like I’m as packed-too-painfully tight in my own skin.
That’s the thing about chronic pain. Just the slightest bit of relief changes everything while your body struggles to understand what’s going on.
Sometimes when the pain inexplicably recedes, panic takes over and the anxiety cranks up. I wonder if I’m truly feeling better or just malfunctioning more.
It’s funny to ponder those things after the fact; I feel silly for worrying when I should be revelling. It’s terrifying to speculate in the moment though. When I’m all, “But I’m not ready to die yet.”
I don’t like my pain, but I’ve gotten used to it. And sometimes it’s difficult to leave abusers. No one needs to understand that for it to be true, least of all the abused.
When brain cancer feels less life-threatening than pain reduction, though, that’s how I know I’m fucked up.
Dan sat at the foot of the bed this morning, holding a big mug of coffee in his left hand and patting my shin with his right. And when he got up and walked to the kitchen, I thought: Wait just a goddamn minute. There was no extra jolt of pain when he touched me.
Who’s life is this? Who’s body did I wake up with by mistake? Don’t tell her I have it. Please.
The meds aren’t supposed to work overnight like that, so it’s probably just good weed, good sleep, and the revelation things don’t have to get worse.
