About the Beto O’Rourke Drama

About the Beto O’Rourke Drama

Guess there’s a moratorium on my moratorium to blog about political stuff. But you know who doesn’t have a single pearl to clutch?

Beto O’Rourke.

That viral footage of him shutting down the Greg Abbott clown who laughed during his comments on guns and Uvalde is something to behold.

(Clip may be NSFW—unless you work at a school, church, movie theater, grocery store, etc.)

I don’t have the energy to flesh out a full post on this or deal with more contact-form trolls today, but I do feel morally obligated to say something on behalf of elementary school children being trained to shelter in bulletproof pods.

Every once in a while, though, someone will say the damn thing for me.

What gives me hope this morning is 30% Beto and 70% the crowd’s response.

Hope and First World Despair

Hope and First World Despair

Today I’m kind of a mixed bag of hope and first-world despair. My disability check posted this morning. (It was Patreon, a much-needed but also much smaller source of income, that posted on Monday.)

For kicks, I decided to check on my closest McDonald’s* (the only one for miles not owned by the family of Rodney Davis) but it’s still not delivering through GrubHub*.

I’m worried they’re not renewing their contract now and I’m trying to sort out what to do about chemo now that the only joy my tastebuds have in life has been taken from me.

Will I even take temozolomide again?

I’m just kidding. Lighten up, loves. It’s only brain cancer, and there are still Ben and Jerry*.

Also, before anyone goes to the trouble of suggesting it, the restaurant is on DoorDash, but we don’t like to talk about DoorDash here.

Oh! Talking about chemo reminds me! A CounterSocial friend sent me a link to this article while I was suffering from insomnia last night: New Injectable Gel Offers Promise for Tough-to-Treat Brain Tumors. It’s for GBM, which is not my type of brain cancer, but it’s the most aggressive type of brain cancer, so that’s very cool. There’s also potential for this “brain caulk,” as my friend called it, to work against other solid Tumors. Breast cancer was mentioned.

Let’s go Badgers!

My supply kit for Zentangle training arrived yesterday. I went through the checklist, read the info packet, and now I’m just like, can we start this now? How about now?

Give me hope and a couple of things to be grateful for (like CZT training, a more-than-generous GoFundMe donation, an FBI raid of Mar-a-Lago, and an accessible shower) and I almost—ALMOST—dont feel sorry for myself about the universe putting my beloved caramel frappe just out of reach.

Since I was still awake at 5:00 am this morning, I’m not committing to anything that can’t be paused for a nap for the rest of the day. Probably going to tuck into a 6-hour video on drawing the eye—part of a drawing instructional series taught by Marc Leone of Northern Kentucky University. (See The Drawing Database channel on YouTube if you’re looking for a non-profit, collegiate approach to studying drawing. It’s kind of amazing. And its freaking free!)

Happy Hump Day to all the camels who celebrate.

*This post isn’t sponsored, but it could be.

Whatsoever a Country Soweth

Whatsoever a Country Soweth

“For whatsoever a country soweth, that shall it also reap.” —Emily Suess, paraphrasing Galations 6:7 and lifting it out of context to make a rhetorical point

Last night someone on CounterSocial said we should do our best to write about the FBI raid of Mar-a-Lago without being sardonic or sarcastic so that posterity might know how people felt about current events long after said events are no longer current.

Damn that’s a really big ask—to edit the snark I mean—but I do think there’s value in the exercise. So here goes nothing.

I was in bed watching some art videos on gesture and composition when Dan came into the room to tell me that the FBI executed a warrant and Trump was shitting proverbial bricks while crying about his safe.

Members of the GOP judiciary were wondering what the world had come to if warrants could be issued to search the homes of old, white men.

And Marjorie Taylor Green was confessing nothing would get her to stop calling the people sporting antisemitic sweatshirts and literally killing people and smearing poop on the walls of the Capitol on January 6th—all in the hopes of installing the literal loser of an election—Antifa.

“Really?” I cackled, somewhat inappropriately. “That’s awesome.”

A while later, my sister-in-law texted to see if we’d heard the news. We had a good laugh at Trump’s expense, and then I wondered aloud what kind of dirt Trump had on people for them to still be defending and financially supporting a man who, as one internet stranger so eloquently put it, “commits a felony as frequently as he takes a shit.”

These sentiments might seem to be steeped in overt, politically motivated schadenfreude. Especially when taken in light of my conservative contemporaries’ proclivity for projection. But I assure anyone reading this long after I’m dead that I only see Democrats as beacons when compared to the moral debauchery of the Trump Crime Syndicate, more colloquially known as the modern GOP.

If you need to juxtapose me with my historical context for clearer understanding, dear scholars of the future, know I loathe the two-party system. Know I loathe the Electoral College. Know I loathe the false binary of everything, but especially political discourse. But also know I do not loathe Democrats and Republicans equally.

Republicans wanted Trump after all.

Yes, someone is always eager to point to Liz Cheney or Adam Kinzinger and say to me “not all Republicans.” To which I say:

Trump was known to be the most corrupt, inept, and outwardly racist and misogynistic choice from a field of at least 10 candidates. He was chosen by Republicans to be the presidential nominee—the figurehead of the party and what it stood for—because of his ability to exploit anger and fear, not in spite of it.

Someone out there might be able to appreciate a soggy square of moralistic toilet paper among a bowl full of pearl-clutching turds, but it ain’t me, babe.

I don’t know if that qualifies as snark, but it’s not meant to be. I want future scholars of American history to understand how abhorrent I find political conservatism. In 100 years I want them to smell the inhumanity of the dumpster fire that stacked the courts, rolled back voting rights, and told us the only way to stop mass shootings was to make sure angry, radicalized assassins had an easy time procuring multi-round guns and plenty of ammunition.

For me, each glimpse of Trump’s legacy burning is satisfying on multiple levels. It’s not just watching an arrogant asshole get what’s coming to him. It’s also witnessing a depraved, wholly self-interested political party scatter when the lights are turned on.

Our glee is a confession. An inappropriate but entirely natural response. A way of acknowledging the truth that fascism didn’t tighten its grip on this democracy because we accidentally let The Bad Guy’s wife redesign the Rose Garden, but because too many people planted hate and fear instead of carefully tending social justice.

For whatsoever a country soweth, that shall it also reap.



I woke up to a deposit notification email from my bank this morning and I was all set to celebrate with my favorite breakfast, but the food delivery app said the restaurant was closed.

It wasn’t the neighborhood McDonald’s that was closed, just GrubHub’s delivery. But since I can’t drive it might as well be closed.

It’s Monday, and I feel personally attacked. Not a great start to my week.

Now, Dan probably would have made a run for me, but I didn’t suggest it because 1.) I budget my asks; 2.) the Corolla smells like it’s burning lately; and 3.) the garage door only closes if Dan pushes it down past the Nope Point—the spot about halfway down the track where it meets some imperceptible obstruction and reverses course.

I think the garage door and my esophagus are in collusion, now that I’m writing this.

My whole point in bringing up the car and the garage is just that I worry one or both will crap out soon if we go around pretending like the world isn’t comprised of entropy and horrendously bad timing. That kind of stuff sucks when all else is fine. And, spoiler alert: hardly anything is fine over here.

Whew! That was a long walk just to tell you I went for another restaurant’s version of a breakfast biscuit and iced coffee this morning, but it wasn’t as good. I’ve been saying for years McDonald’s puts crack in their beverages.

I don’t really believe it’s crack, but they do something.

At any rate, I’m caffeinated and fed, and it was cheaper than our usual breakfast treat by about $7 dollars.

Oh, since I don’t tweet my every thought anymore, I just need to say that Marjorie Taylor Greene understood the assignment and if that $20 was tossed in the rage cage by an onlooker, so did they.

*intermission music*

Oof. Wendy’s is dead to me. First, they take away the vanilla Frosty to market test that Strawberry Quik-flavored nightmare in a cardboard cup. And now this?

Why does eating have to be such a struggle?

I’m going back to bed.

Shower Thoughts #4: Squares, Alex Jones, Weed

Shower Thoughts #4: Squares, Alex Jones, Weed

Another episode of my definitely very original Shower Thoughts series.

Life is full of nuance. All squares are rectangles but not all rectangles are squares.

When I’m tired and everything is spinning, I really hate this shower.

You’re sick when you’re too tired to cook. You’re really sick when you’re too tired to eat.

Fucking monkey pox can get bent. Someone else can get a vaccine. As far as I’m concerned, everyone’s contaminated. Asking my immune system to do one more thing right now is like asking an elementary school teacher if she’s got a minute.

I need to crowdsource food ideas. I’m sick of oatmeal, protein shakes, and Lunchables.

I miss feeling comfortable. Eight years feels like a long time to be in unrelenting pain.

I’m pretty sure there was a time in my life when clothes didn’t hurt.

If Alex Jones has $45 million, it’s because people bought his literal and figurative bullshit. If the consequences of telling the truth are being poor…

I was going somewhere with this.

Probably related: I’m not convinced the long arc of the moral universe even bends toward justice. Parallel lines, more like.

Oh, yeah. Roger Stone was begging for money on behalf of Alex Jones and called him a “good Christian” man. 

So much for sheep’s clothing. They’re coming at the godbots stark white and buck naked with tattoos of Richard Nixon on their backs.

At least that relentless eye blinker, Joel Osteen, goes to church.

I need to think about something happier and take some weed.

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