Awful Words Roundup 2020

Yes, awful words are still awful, even in a pandemic. Let me put it this way: If I were being drawn and quartered, and someone said “Yaass queen!” I would flinch.

This year has brought a whole trove (or tranche, to use a horrible word that’s having a moment) of stupid words related to Covid 19. Should we bother including them? There are so many!

Pod, bubble, maskne, quarantini, zooming, super-spreader, herd immunity, and all the rest are hard to get away from, and unpleasant reminders of how our culture has devolved. What is your least favorite Covid-related word or phrase? Mine is “new normal.” There are so many that the Oxford English Dictionary, for the first time, declined to choose one for it’s New Word of the Year.

Let’s go with words and phrases that have reared their ugly heads in 2020 to make our miserable lives even more miserable.

Proud Boys
“So” at the beginning of each sentence
Fire (meaning great)
Lived experience
Deeper Dive
Cancel culture
Truth to power
Ask as a noun
Shattered norms
Thirst trap
Inflection point

The other day I heard a guy on the news say “Marxian” instead of Marxist. I also heard someone say “uncomfortability.” I objected but nobody cared. People on TV also keep saying stuff like “My wife and myself” or “Myself and my crew” because they must think myself sounds more intelligent than me. People trying to sound intelligent are just ridiculous, whereas people who say “anyways” are at least sincere.

As this fucking horrible year comes to an end, I am ready to announce my vote for most egregious of all new words: WAP. WAP is so tragic, I don’t know where to begin. A wet pussy is obviously a good thing. I mean, it’s better than a dry pussy. It’s a good thing to discuss between lovers. But it doesn’t belong in an anthem!

Snoop Dogg admitted that he was against WAP, explaining that it referred to a “jewel” that a woman should not devalue. I think he got some shit for that on Twitter. Cardi’s husband Whatshisname”pushed back” by saying something about empowering female sexuality. I’m sorry, no. Just as I don’t want a guy to sing about Big Hard Cocks, I don’t want to hear WAP. I wouldn’t want little kids asking about WAP, but that’s just me, i.e. Karen.

Weigh in with your own list of awful words! I want to see what I left out.

Posted in Celebrities, irritants, Rants, Words | Tagged , , | 12 Comments

American Music Awards 2020 Exegesis


I’m pretty sure you people are too smart to waste your time on this awards show, but do not fear, I watched it for you! I missed the beginning with the Justin Bieber performance but it’s safe to say that it was embarrassingly awful.

When I started watching, a huge fat blonde woman was singing a duet with an older black guy. They were sitting down, probably because she was too out of shape to stand. Imagine my surprise when she turned out to be Katy Perry! What happened, I thought, is she still pregnant? I googled her, and she’s already had her baby with its stupid name.

After that, or at some point, that guy The Weekend performed his hit song with his whole face in bandages like an accident victim. I’ll bet there’s a reason but I’m too lazy to google it.

Megan Thee Stallion came out with some sexy dancers and lip synced a raunchy song about how much she loves her body. There is so much body to love, Megan! She is like a Mount Everest of a voluptuous woman. She is a fleshy giant who can twerk with a bored look on her face, which seems like a special talent. You can’t imagine the twerking, literally. I see why she’s a star: She is mesmerizing.

Poor J Lo was left to writhe around on the floor in a sheer leotard thing, FOR NOTHING! She was just an unfortunate also-ran, unable to muster any sex appeal due to the tragic amount of effort she puts out to make a buck. No J lo, please go back to the block.

What else? This guy Something Capaldi who has the most annoying radio hit of 2020 came out to bleat a different tortured heartbreak anthem. I forget what his hit is but you know it if you’ve ever been in a CVS. I saw that he was chubby and sad looking and it made me feel bad for hating him. I will just hate his voice, not HIM, going forward.

I think that Bad Bunny guy performed, or maybe he just won an award.

Billie Eilish performed and it was the usual with a couple of twists. Now that everyone has seen her large chest, she made sure it peeked out of her Kimono thing. She sang in an under-amplified voice and pranced around looking impressed with herself. When she fell backwards off a miniature stage, it was a nice little shock. Otherwise, I’m tired of her shtick now, are you? I want her to knock it off or go away.

A rapper called Doja Cat accepted an award by saying “wow” over and over then raising her arms in triumph as though she’d just won the Olympics. I really really hate her, having witnessed her lack of even a smidgen of talent on another stupid music awards show.

What do you think of smidgen? What would be a better word? I’m pretty stoned so I’m blanking out. A soupcon? An iota? A shred?

Anyway, to sum up, Megan -1, everyone else – negative 100.

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Finding Equanimity

The Sanskrit word upeksha means “equanimity, non-attachment, nondiscrimination, even-mindedness, or letting go.” Upa means ‘over,’ and iksh means ‘to look.’ You climb the mountain to be able to look over the whole situation, not bound by one side or the other.

In Buddhism, equanimity (in Pali, upekkha; in Sanskrit, upeksha) is one of the four great virtues (along with compassion, loving kindness, and sympathetic joy) that the Buddha taught his disciples to cultivate.

Equanimity isn’t indifference. It’s a balance that comes from inner stability–remaining centered when surrounded by turmoil. It’s a state of acceptance, but not in the sense of being resigned or defeated. More like being at peace with things as they are.

Does this sound like self help gibberish? I learned the concept from a podcast by an expert on family estrangement. It’s my first podcast! That’s how much the subject weighs on me. Being powerless in a critical aspect of your life is so fucking difficult. It can lead you into a never-ending loop of regret, guilt, anger, remorse, and despair.

I am beginning to see that the best way to approach insoluble situations is to do nothing. Not just do nothing, but to feel nothing. Nothing can be a good choice, and in my interpretation of equanimity, it is essential. Accept what is and let it wash over you. Don’t react to the feelings or urges attendant to helplessness or misery. Just go, Uh-huh, and go about your business.

Until this week, I would have called this approach “denial” and I would lobby hard against it. What’s more pathetic than denial? I am constantly pointing it out and deploring it. It’s part of my Just Admit It worldview. Everyone hates me for this bossy, superior stance but there you go. I want everyone to face their own life, even if it’s a tragedy, and to face up to their demons. I feel it’s their duty, as a human being.

But once you face up to it, why keep suffering? Recognize the truth, evaluate its awfulness, and then stop struggling with it. If you can’t change it, assume a state of equanimity. Say to yourself, My parents are awful, my kid hates me, I am useless, everyone’s crazy…and then return to a state of calm. I think if I practice this enough, it may set me free from my daily torment.

I will aim to only get mad about the things that are fun to be mad at. Bad grammar, hideous denim, and the ex-wife. Also, music awards shows. Did anyone see that stupid American Music Awards the other nigh?? Oh my god, so awful. I guess I should go write an exegesis.

Namaste or whatever.

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Outer Limits of Love and Hate

Watching Trump on TV the other day, I considered the depth and breadth of my hatred for him. I hate him with more specificity than I’ve ever hated anyone, except maybe my ex-husband.

After 17 years with him, I hated the way my ex drank his daily orange juice. He placed his feet in a certain way, and always faced the same window.

Usually, you have to spend a lifetime with someone before you can hate them at this granular level, but Trump lays outside of usual parameters. In four years, he has seeded a wild garden of almost metaphysical hatred, such that most of us feel like world class connoisseurs.

Who among us does not hate the way he shapes his mouth in that puckered O? What about the sniffing? What about how he stands, leaning forward and rocking back and forth? What about the back of his head, the way he combs his “hair” into a coiffed duck-tail? The way he pronounces China, always pausing a beat before uttering the word and letting you know that he’s really thinking “vagina.”

The hyperbole, the biggest ever, more than anyone has ever seen, perhaps in the history of the world. And the imaginary People who are always Saying.

The slow lumbering portentous walk, the ill-fitting suits, the flapping overcoat, the hand gestures. The fucking hand gestures! The way he modulates his voice, the way he says “intress-ting” when he means “I’m so mad about this.” The way he mimics intelligent people in a dumb Poindexter voice. The way he likes to call himself Sir when he quotes people.

The way he says “Ivanka” with a disturbing reverence. The expression on his face when he’s pretending to listen to anyone, restlessly waiting to return to the spotlight.

I know I’m leaving out so much! Yesterday, my sister texted me to see if I’d noticed that his hair was less yellow. Of course I had. Am I blind or what?

I feel I’ve been driven to the outer limit of hatred with this cunt. I’m a hateful person anyway, but this is different.

However, luckily, I can still register love.

I’ve been watching the Smithsonian’s Panda Cam, enthralled by the way Mei Xiang, the 22 year old mother, cares for her baby, Bao Bao.

It’s almost unbearable to witness such maternal tenderness. Watch her as she plays with her cub and audibly kisses it, rolling it around and cradling it as it snuggles into her huge body.

Any mother will be moved by this exhibit of sublime love. Cynics can point out that this is just instinct, but so what? Plenty of our behavior is instinctive. It would be nice if we were better in touch with some of our instincts, like compassion. Compassion can be hard to muster while our bodies and souls have been so relentlessly threatened in 2020.

I wish I were the mother panda, or the baby. I wish I could be immersed in love. It’s a daily struggle, isn’t it?

But as I’ve been sitting here typing, my husband has popped his head in three times to ask how I’m doing and if I need anything. Maybe he is my mother panda! In the awful awfulness of my life, he is a blessing. Should we have our own live stream?!

Posted in Horrible Stuff, love, News | Tagged , , , | 8 Comments

Instagram Jewelry Women

As I continue to literally sit out this pandemic on my couch, I spend more hours scrolling through Instagram than I’m going to admit. It used to be just photographers and African models. Then, I expanded my interests to jewelry, and now to antique jewelry specifically.

I used to be interested in antique jewelry but then I felt I had enough and forgot about it as a category of desire. I was content to wear two rings, my grandma’s and my wedding ring. I have a nice collection of Victorian tiger claw jewelry, which I have bitched about here. But Instagram triggered my lizard brain propensity to hunt-and gather. I wanted more jewelry. I needed more jewelry.

I discovered a whole bunch of antique jewelry vendors who showcased the stuff they sold on Etsy or Ruby Lane. Then I discovered vendors who only sold their pieces on Instagram, which meant a hectic competition to DM your interest. All these people called their rings “she.” This is sickening, obviously, but not enough to put me off my new obsession.

I realized that these people, mostly women, formed a community and knew each other by their first names. So a compliment from Something Something Jewels brought a reply of “Thank you Judy!” or in the case of a ring, “Yes, isn’t she a nice one?”

Then I found the worst kind of Instagram Jewelry Woman in existence: The collector (i.e., hoarder) who is just there to show off her stuff, which tends toward the dazzling and shockingly expensive. They will photograph their hands festooned with fifty thousand rings, captioning them with casual descriptions like “Saturday stack” or “Can you guess which ones are new?”

One of these collectors posted a literal stack of gold rings, a type I personally love, and remarked giddily, “I just can’t stop buying —–rings!” I restrained my self from commenting, “TRY!” I asked a friend to leave that comment but she has the same reluctance to identify herself as an asshole, and refused.

I came across a woman whose passion is mourning jewelry. She is quite scholarly about it, and has written a book on the subject. She sells the occasional piece but is mostly there to educate. Her account led me to a person who collects and sells mourning jewelry, who captioned one photo with “Love me some sad ladies and urns!” Ew, I thought. I looked at her jewelry with a mixture of envy and irritation. You can go look yourself at @yulianaeternalmourning.

I began to ponder the attraction of mourning jewelry. Victorian regalia is so romantic, let’s face it. And mourning was part of Victorian life

The average lifespan during the Victorian era was 40 to 45 years. Europe was in a near constant state of war, and cholera, typhoid, smallpox, and scarlet fever were common killers. Approximately one in three children died before the age of five, and epidemics sometimes brought that number to one in two.

Simply put, death was a constant companion in the Victorian era. Mourning jewelry brought a little solace to the survivors who had to cope with frequent losses.*

Without thinking about any of this, years ago I put some of Max’s hair into an old gold locket, and I wear it wherever I go, just to keep him with me. It was and remains “a little solace.” I’ve actually become superstitious about it…a whole other story.

So I began to feel upset about the procuring and flaunting of mourning jewelry. Yuliana was the worst of the worst, I felt. I looked at her stacked fingers and read her smug captions and decided to comment.

Naturally, she blocked me! I wish I could remember my exact comment, which was actually a stern lecture. It was something like, “Do you realize that each ring is a token of someone’s grief and loss?? Do you think the owners of those rings ever imagined that they would adorn the fingers of a stranger showing off on Istagram? I wear a piece of my son’s hair in a locket, and I’ll be damned if it ends up with a bunch of other lockets around the neck of a gloating stranger.

Oops, I pissed her off. Nobody likes a sore loser, I guess. Nobody likes real mourning, or real pain and bitterness. But when people are awful, I have to let them know. It’s my calling. That and hideous denim.

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Period Red, Ladies!

Amid all the rage and dread, my friend Dr. LaRue relayed the news that Pantone has come out with a new color called Period! Not as in punctuation but as in menstrual period…”an original shade of red that represents a steady flow during menstruation.”

How empowering, right ladies?

I’m going to say that this red, described by Pantone as “an active and adventurous red hue,” is not the color I associate with menstruation. Maybe the first day? You tell me.

Pantone goes on to say that

‘period’ emboldens people who menstruate* to feel proud of who they are. To own their period with self-assurance; to stand up and passionately celebrate the exciting and powerful life force they are born with; to urge everyone regardless of gender to feel comfortable to talk spontaneously and openly about this pure and natural bodily function.”

Well, good! I know that I personally was proud to menstruate, and enjoyed clearing a room of men simply by bringing up the subject. I liked brandishing a tampon instead of hiding it discreetly. I almost threw one at a bad opening act at the Palladium or somewhere, hoping to hit the lead singer in the face, to register my displeasure. Doubting my aim, I changed my mind at the last moment.

Years ago I wrote about menstruation here, and I recall the incredible sense of female community that arose from the discussion! It was really wonderful. (Go read the comments if you’re a *Person Who Menstruates, or was one formerly.)

As an old bag, I miss my periods. I loved everything about them. Now, it seems crazy that in 2020, women and girls sill need prodding to feel okay with menstruation. If men had periods…well, you know what Gloria Steinem said! Periods are great but not as art, imo. I’m thinking of icky feminist “art” centered on used Tampax or whatever. They are great, but you don’t deserve a medal for having them. Let’s stop at the new Pantone color.

Will Pantone develop a color for menopause?? I want them to. What would that look like, do you think? The color of autumn leaves mixed with the steel grey of Accidental Icon’s hair? What color is estrogen, anyway?

As we ponder Period red, lets list all the reds we can think of, quick!

Scarlet, ruby, rose, brick, cardinal, blood (not menstrual), vermilion, garnet, and cherry! Somehow I doubt that Crayola will give us a period red. As we lean into our female power, I think we’ll be okay without it.

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The Pearl

I started seeing a new therapist this year, and it has been life-changing. He is smart, funny, sensitive, and has done his own time with depression. I feel such a strong connection that I’m hoping he’ll want to be my friend once ethics allow.

Last week over Zoom, I told him about an essay I read, primarily a take-down of Viktor Frankl. We discussed the sacrosanct regard for Frankl, as a Holocaust survivor, and the viability of Primo Levi’s work, since he ended up jumping out a window.

The essay takes Frankl to task for a bunch of things, but most pertinently for his insistence on finding the positive in even the most horrible experience. It’s not exactly like finding the silver lining of concentration camps…but it comes close.

Frankl maintains that we always have a chance to exert our will, to make choices even when all seems lost. If you’re in a camp and you have a piece of bread crust, you can choose to share it, for example.

Anyway, it was a really good, thought provoking essay. The part I wanted to talk about with the therapist was the false notion that suffering brings you closer to god, or that suffering has any point at all. The bible teaches (apparently) that god imposes suffering on you for a reason. Suffering in this life is a preparation for heaven. Maybe you’re supposed to be grateful, for all I know.

Here’s the paragraph that struck a chord for me:

Because infant and childhood deaths were so common it is not surprising that the rabbis of the Talmud tried to inject a glimmer of metaphysical hope into this most tragic of tragedies. Rabbi Yochanan had lost no fewer than ten children, and his colleagues attempted to console him with the promise of a reward to come: “If one engages in Torah and acts of charity and buries his sons, all his transgressions are forgiven.” That might have consoled Yochanan the Rabbi, but it did not console Yochanan the grieving father. Rabbi Yochanan rejected the very notion that suffering -of any sort-was worth a reward. “I want neither this suffering nor its reward.”

What a powerful statement for those of us who are beyond consolation.

Suffering leads to nowhere good, and teaches you nothing. You might be more  compassionate to your fellow man, but surely at a preposterous price. Trying to find value in suffering seems so American to me, but I guess it’s actually religious dogma. I used to listen to Joel Osteen in the car, and we would snicker at his promises to his deluded followers: “Your wife has incurable cancer and your dog died? Cheer up! God is just biding his time, preparing to send you a spiritual check in the mail!”

Haha, there is no check! Not to mention god. Here’s what came up when I googled “suffering is”:

Never for nothing, eh?

I love Rabbi Yochanan’s quote so much that it might be my next tattoo. It looks good in Hebrew:

So then, I don’t remember how we got there, but my therapist and I talked about guilt and how it was okay to just go to bed in the middle of the day if that’s what you need. He said ice cream would be okay too, a form of self-care. Somehow, maybe we were talking about our mutual dispositions, and he said, “Being sensitive and intense isn’t a bad thing, right?”

I disagreed, and said that the pain of being that way is only valuable if you channel it into art. If it’s just suffering that doesn’t produce anything, it’s like an oyster without a pearl. Then, it’s just suffering; there is no pearl.

“Like the Holocaust,” he observed brightly, like the smartest kid in the class. We both started laughing hysterically.

A good therapist always wraps up the session by returning to the beginning, so it comes full circle. UCLA will only cover a certain number of sessions with its doctors, and I’m near the limit with mine. I will miss him terribly!

And this post is the pearl.

Posted in Art, Disorders, grief, Religion, Words | Tagged , , | 7 Comments

Pig Fucking

A few years ago, I watched the first episode of the British TV series Black Mirror, expecting a clever Sci Fi drama, since it was being compared to the Twilight Zone.

In the episode, a member of the British royal family is kidnapped and will only be released if the British prime minister fucks a pig on live television. A wild, perverse premise with an obvious critique of contemporary culture. One of the actors described the topic as “humiliation, and the public’s appetite for humiliation”. Fair enough, in part.

I still feel shaken as I remember watching it. I think I went from amusement to disbelief to anxiety to abject horror and grief. Notice how this trajectory follows the one we’ve endured with the presidency of Donald Trump!

In the show, we see the varying reactions of TV viewers as they watch the spectacle play out. Many are crying. I cried with them, because I’m sensitive, alright?

I remember complaining for days and weeks that I was permanently traumatized, even though it was only TV.

Now, watching Trump on TV, I feel the same horror welling up, but I’m too scared to cry. Maybe later. Every utterance and gesture is revolting, shameless, viscerally repugnant, like the Prime Minister fucking a pig. When he holds forth at his rallies, his tone strikes me as a mixture of Mussolini and Rodney Dangerfield. I’m actually embarrassed for him, because I’m a human being.

How one stupid fat bully could succeed in corrupting the entire government and breaking the whole country, I will never understand. But here we are.

I keep reflecting on Black Mirror, against my will, because my brain is looking for a reference point, I guess. What I want to know is this: ARE WE THE PIG?

Or is Trump both the pig and the pig fucker?

That’s all I’ve got today, sorry. I just wanted to check in.


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Four More Years??

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that if Trump is reelected, we will lose our fucking minds.

Four more years of this anxiety, fear, disgust, and helpless rage would not be endurable. The daily insults to our intelligence and to our very souls are not sustainable. So even though on the one hand we are convinced that sanity will prevail and Biden will win the election, on the other hand we now know that a large portion of voters is rooting for that stupid fat malevolent cunt to finish destroying what’s left of our democracy.

So! What will you do? I want to leave the US, and I’m thinking about what my choices are. Ireland, maybe? I have two friends who live in Ireland, so at least I would know someone. They’re still letting us in for some reason. It’s a beautiful place, and I wouldn’t have to learn a new language.

From Dublin, you can fly to France, where one could hopefully outstay one’s visa and just blend into the background of Paris.

The last (and only) time I went to Paris, I was 15 years old. My sister and I had acquired a pair of French boyfriends who were vacationing in London, where we spent our evenings at a disco bar in Earl’s Court.  I can still remember the jukebox there, which was always playing either “Lola” or “Band of Gold.” Anyway, we met these guys, Michel and Daniel, who wore striped sailor shirts and little scarves around their necks. They were adorable.

Soon, they invited us for a dirty weekend in Paris, and we showed up there with no idea of what to do or where to go. We found a cheap hotel where the proprietress yelled at us contemptuously in French but took our money, however resentfully. The next day, we went to Daniel’s house in the suburbs, where the guys were lolling around while the parents were away somewhere. We watched French TV and one of the guys put on a facial mask. We assumed this was a normal thing for cute French guys.

The guys were horrified to learn that my sister and I were both having our periods! Hahaha! They were beside themselves, blabbing hysterically about “le regle.” Eventually they calmed down and I think we spent a nice day with them. I really can’t remember anything else, but I have a packet of heartsick letters from Michele Girard, his actual name, proclaiming his love and calling me his little cabbage.

So anyway, France would be great and they have socialized medicine, so hopefully I could get my antidepressants, lipitor, ativan, and calcium. If it’s Ireland, I can get some of those bulky hand-knit sweaters, and eat scones and oatcakes and learn to drink Guinness.

Meanwhile, my sister just texted me, “ARE YOU LISTENING TO WILLIAM BARR?” in all caps, and even though I’m not, I can feel the revulsion rising in my chest. What a fucking fucker that fucking bastard is. Four more years of that bulldog warty face will kill me, and not in a good way.

Four more years of Jared and Ivanka, Chad Wolf and Peter Navarro, simpering Mike Pence and the rest of those motherfuckers, no no no no.

Think how much worse it can get! Or don’t, since it will raise your cortisol level, disrupting almost all your body’s processes and putting you at risk of anxiety, depression, digestive problems, headaches, heart disease, sleep problems, weight gain, memory and concentration impairment.

Wait, you already have those symptoms? Me too! France or Ireland, cast your vote. Or submit another viable destination and I’ll meet you there in December.

Posted in Disorders, Horrible Stuff, News, Rants | Tagged , , , | 11 Comments

Good Riddance to Fashion, Plus a Bonus Song

Every day I get a million emails from shopping sites, promoting the newest looks. They want me to know what’s trending. They still challenge me to “up my game.” Who are they kidding?

Please. Does anyone want new clothes? I don’t get how the high end companies still exist. Why are they bothering us with “the new season”? Seasons are over. It’s either hot or cold. You either add or remove your sweater.

Now we’re asked to feel sorry for the fashion industry…one of the industries most responsible for pollution after fuel. The arguments are: If you put on a nice outfit, you’ll feel better about yourself! Or, fashion is still an important way to express yourself! Or, fashion brings joy into our lives!

Someone is still trying to up their game, because someone seems to be purchasing leather culottes. Every brand has them. But who wants to stick to the couch while you’re watching Your Shows??

So awful and tragic, at every price point.

I follow two fashion influencers on Instagram and I’ve already annoyed one by criticizing his Gucci ad. It’s his livelihood to look privileged, so I get that. But the inequities of the world are now too blatant to justify $900 sneakers. Maybe if we’re ever allowed out again, people with those sneakers will be ostracized. Or burned at the stake.

Where I live, people dress for  comfort, i.e. we are slobs. It’s a very working class neighborhood. Elsewhere in L.A., maybe people are doing their Starbucks run in leather culottes but I doubt it. It’s too hot and there’s nowhere to go. Looking ahead, there will be places to go but people will be too germ-phobic and worn out to give a shit about impressing each other.

Some things just feel over, permanently, and in some cases good riddance. People may want to argue that everything is coming back and things will be the same as before, but I disagree.

When I was young, women wore girdles and pantyhose. It was just a normal part of getting dressed to go to work. Now, this seems dumb, because it is.  Women with straight hair used to get perms! Ew, remember? Men used to smoke pipes! Just as those aspects of daily life have worn out their welcome, so will the idea of tirelessly adding new clothes, handbags and shoes when your closets and drawers are already full.

You can exhibit your style with the stuff you already have. Or you can decide that superficial shit is a waste of energy in this age of horror. After 9/11, New Yorker’s realized that footwear should accommodate running for your life.

Fashion is an anachronism. Let it die.

What about dining out? The concept already seems weird to me! It’s no fun to eat around strangers who might infect you with something. A couple of years ago, I offered my CBD vape thing to a girl sitting next to me on a flight to London. We got a little high together and she told me about her affair with a colleague. That won’t be happening again. Thanks to that cunt in the White House, we can’t fly to London.

Here’s where we can still go:

Dominican Republic
North Macedonia

What, no Belarus??

Other countries will take us but with restrictions.

What other things do you think are over for good? On the bright side, I have started reading novels again, so I could use recommendations.

Also, I now write songs in my head, usually in rhyming verses. Here’s my latest:

I don’t want to die of Covid, not that I’m afraid of death
I don’t want to die of cancer, dying in your bed is best

I don’t want to die of Covid, that’s not how I want to go
I don’t want a ventilator, if they ask me, I’ll say no.

Try singing that in your head and tell me that isn’t fun!

Posted in Fashion, irritants, News | Tagged , , | 8 Comments