Don’t be mad at me for being consumed with Amber and Johnny; Tik Tok videos with the hashtag #JusticForJohnny have been viewed 8.3 billion times! Americans have googled Amber Heard four times more than google searches for abortion or the Supreme Court.

It could be serving as a needed escape from the reality of our politics, Covid, inflation, and bla bla bla. But I think it’s just a universal drama that most of us can relate to. Most of us have had at least one destructive relationship under out belts. Most of us have wanted to have sex with Johnny Depp at one time or another. Most of us love courtroom conflicts. And most of us pride ourselves on our ability to spot a liar.

And Amber is lying her head off, right??

Yesterday I read a preachy essay about how the backlash against Amber is misogynistic. There are a few of these essays making the rounds. If you don’t believe Amber Heard, you are dooming abuse victims to silence or worse.

But I disagree. I think it’s because this particular woman seems so awful and nuts. My favorite quote of all time is the former friend who described her as a sociopathic show pony. Try saying it out loud. It’s just a wonderful phrase! I could not love it more. And I feel it is apt, after watching her antics in court. The continual head bobbing and barrage of theatrical expressions are truly bonkers.

Further, I’ve decided that her “lip cut” is a cold sore, and her bruises are the result of botox injections. Don’t ask me about my research or you’ll know how immersed I am in this crap.

If you listen to their taped arguments – and who tapes arguments besides my sister??- you can hear her goading him, using weird baby voices or laughing demonically. Johnny seems to maintain a tired and pissed off tone, even though his acting skills are a million times superior, while she tries everything under the sun to manipulate him.

I don’t believe the bottle incident because whose pum pum can accommodate a fucking whiskey bottle for fucksake? Without having to go to the hospital for surgery afterwards? Her crazy email after this pretend incident says she wants to rip him apart and devour him. Which cannot follow a rape by a whiskey bottle, in my world or anyone else’s.

And also, what about her hairdos? Jesus Christ with those hairdos. The farm-girl braiding, the fluffy loose buns, the fake disheveledness. I’ll admit I’m jealous of her tailored designer suits and the way she buttons her shirt collars. But the fucking water bottle…no.

Her intake of mushrooms and MDMA do not reflect the anti-drug stance she insists on having, and her use of Elon Musk suggests a fetish for powerful men. There is nothing sympathetic about this woman, no matter how you regard Johnny Depp. I kind of want to kick her myself.

Worst of all is her flagrant lie about donating the $7 million divorce settlement, which I knew was a lie back when she first announced it. Because I can spot a liar a mile off. It is one of my superpowers, like finding thrift store treasures and critiquing bad writing.

Okay then. Thoughts?

A Pat Benatar song came on the car radio the other day and I was instantly reminded of a blog post I wrote years ago about antinatalism.

Antinatalism is the belief that it’s morally wrong to have children. Why is it wrong? Because “life is harm” and because the unborn is unable to give consent.

On the face of it, this argument is just nuts. I mean, it’s unconscious knowledge that this is nuts. By unconscious knowledge, I mean instinctual knowledge. We may also find it self-evident that a person who believes that “life is harm” is a deeply unhappy person.

But in trying to refresh my memory on the lunacy of antinatalism, I came across an essay that tries to refute the idea that antinatalism is a philosophy borne of depression. Yeah, well, some depressed people may see things more realistically than an incurable optimist, but it’s inherent in the illness to see the world in distorted ways that only therapy or meds can modify. (The most well-known proponent of antinatalism is a guy who insists on strict privacy about his private life so that we can’t extrapolate anything from his history or psychological make-up. Hint: He is miserable.)

Anyway, Pat Benatar caused me to go back and read the post from 2008, and just as I recall, the comments are hilarious. Comment threads like these have kept me writing here for a million years, and while they don’t occur very often, they are pure joy. I hope you will go read that post and then laugh your heads off at the comments.

And I hope you will be moved to comment here, so we can laugh some more.

I’ve always had a Thing for crazy twins, so the recent deaths of Igor and Grichka Bogdanoff turned out to be a goldmine (for me if not for them.) The twin brothers, who are famous pop culture figures in France, died withing 6 days of each other after falling ill with Covid in December.

They refused Covid vaccinations but denied being afraid of them, much like they denied having plastic surgery, even though they turned their faces into giant surreal puppet masks. What kills me is that they were originally good looking men who must have lost their minds together in a classic case of folie à deux.

The twins became famous in the late 70s as the presenters of the hit science show “Temps X”(described as a cross between Mystery Science Theater 3000 and Mr. Wizard.) They appeared in wacky silver space suits but this was child’s play, in terms of the antics to come.

Over the years, they received dubious doctoral degrees and published academic papers that explained the state of the universe just before the Big Bang. When their work was derided as gibberish, they sued several scientists and magazines for libel.

You will have to google them to get the full story, but if you don’t love them you have a heart of stone. I wish I could know everything about them. One of them had several children, so we’ll see how that works out.

The Bogdanoff Twins reminded me of my favorite twins of all time, Frida and Greta Chaplin. I used to be obsessed with them and I may just be ready to revisit that obsession.

Frida and Greta became famous in the 80s, when they went on trial for stalking a truck driver. They walked and spoke in unison, dressed alike, and most poignantly, says a neighbor, “They even hoovered together.”

Their story is tragic at first glance, but maybe their companionship was a blessing that most of us will never understand. They dressed by looking at each other instead of a mirror! They died thirteen years apart, which must have been an ordeal for the surviving twin, but they were eventually buried one on top of the other in a double cemetery plot.

This is how I want to be buried with my husband! I think I got him to agree to this although we haven’t discussed who goes on top.

Finally, there are Flo and Kay, who I wrote about in 2009 and ended that post by calling Dick Clark a cunt, a statement I stand by today. Flo and Kay are autistic savants, and it may sound condescendingly ableist to call them special but they really are amazing. Enjoy this documentary about them! You’ll be happy to know that they are still with us and doing well. If anything bad ever happens to them, I hope they are together until the last moment…like me and my husband, in our double plot, with me on top, because I weigh less.

It’s hard to make new friends when you’re old, and even harder when you’re morose, needy, and opinionated. I’ve lived in my “new” community for 7 years and have made one friend, but she’s very busy with work and family. I’m not an extrovert by any means, but I do crave companionship, so much so that new people usually hasten to escape my orbit.

When I first moved here I had high hopes for meeting people. A friend of a friend was dating a woman called M, who was smart, well-read, and “fun” when she was drinking. Soon after we met, she invited me to sit on her lap, and I did! Why not? She was amusing, pretty, and I was drinking too.

M befriended me and introduced me to her teen daughters. She reported that the girls thought I was So Cool, and she hoped I would spend some time with them. I grew close to the older girl, a gorgeous high school student who thought she was ugly and had been dumped on the ride home from prom by a boy who texted her while his dad drove.

M started to ghost me but I tried not to notice. Her boyfriend revealed that M no longer wanted to be friends because I didn’t believe in god. That was a new one! I couldn’t take this seriously, since M wasn’t religious. Finally, I confronted her by text, and she said I was “too sad.” Interestingly, she had been drawn to my sadness at first. But now I was too sad for a woman who never, ever stopped ranting about her daughter had been raped ” in the face.”

I was so hurt that I considered getting a license plate reading 2SAD4U. Actually, I’d still like to have that but I’m too lazy to begin the process.  2LAZ4U would be even better.

Later, I met L, who was daffy but fun, and we shared some obscure enthusiasms, like Mexican Wedding Earrings and silk pj’s. I sent her a photo of my dresser, and she sent me one of her dresser. They were nearly identical!

But every time I asked her if she wanted to get together, L was doing something else. After at least 5 efforts, I gave up. Was I too sad or too lazy? Or was I too much like her? Oh well.

Not long ago, I met V at the supermarket. She screamed, “Your hair is so beautiful!” and I turned around ready to marry her. She continued to shower me with compliments, and I returned each one. She had nice hair, she was really pretty, good style, etc. We stood and talked about all kinds of things including her violent father and her favorite Maybelline mascara. I gave her my phone number and told her I would love to hang out or go to Sephora together. When I texted her, she blew me off.

Then, at Nordstrom, I met a lady my age who had just moved here from Chicago after a divorce. We talked about our kids and, at great length, about our wrinkly necks and the many methods that won’t help despite costing thousands of dollars. We exchanged phone numbers. When I texted her, she said she would love to get together after she “got settled in.” That was months ago.

M, L, and V could be reasonably described as crazy, but that was hardly a deal-breaker for me.

Last night in desperation I went to the park for a Menorah lighting thing, even though I’m an atheist who doesn’t practice Judaism. I figured there was a chance of meeting someone local who might be friend material. After talking to a few people, I learned that I have a strong aversion to yellow teeth. Then, miraculously, I met a nice woman with a nose ring and a cute baby. She was smart, warm, and exhibited no craziness. We exchanged phone numbers but I think by the end she just felt sorry for me.

My husband came to walk me home from the park, and I expressed my deep sympathy for the small gathering of Jews, which perplexed him. I explained that I was touched by their willingness to come out on a cold night to embrace their religious traditions, even though everyone has hated them for three thousand years.  They aren’t giving up, just like me trying to find friends.

Meanwhile, an actual close friend won’t return my calls and I’m getting nervous. I hope it’s nothing to do with god or sadness. I might try her again later.

L’chaim!

Did you know that a Senate rule was changed JUST FOR KYRSTEN, that allowed her to show her bare arms on the senate floor? Kyrsten is a triathlete, so she needs to show them. I’m not making this up; Amy Klobuchar helped pass the new rule on this basis.

Would it be a cheap shot to denigrate those arms? Or to say that she’s no Michelle Obama, armwise? Fine. I won’t say it.

Ordinarily, it would be wrong to judge political figures based on their clothing choices, but Kyrsten is demanding that we react. With the denim vest, she is openly trolling us. She is saying, “You think I’m a piece of work? Ha, try THIS!” So if she’s failed to capture one single person’s attention, now she has it.

This bitch is a mean one. Why won’t she let us move ahead…she doesn’t live in a coal state for fucksake. The Dems are wringing their hands about her but it’s not like she was a Trojan Horse. Look at the red flags!

Here she is at her swearing in.

She is clearly a Dom. She will hurt you. She wants to hurt you.

Here she is…I don’t know, you tell me.

Below, at the impeachment hearing. Caped crusader? Flying nun? Mighty Mouse?

More recently, at a couple of infrastructure meetings, she turns to florals, as if saying, “Fuck you all, next time I’ma wear pj’s.”

In case anyone is thinking sexism, no. Jim “gymnasium” Jordan is another outfit troll and he too is either a Cunt or a Nutcase. Cunt, actually. If a man pursued attention via wacky get-ups as strenuously as Sinema does, we would ridicule him as well. In fact, I’d love to see some guy try it. (calling Lindsey!)

Once a member of the Green party, Sinema was ranked by GovTrack.us, (a nonpartisan organization that tracks government data and statistics) 47th on a conservative-to-liberal scale, which is based on lawmakers’ 2019 legislative records. Her response? Her decisions are “based on what’s right for Arizona, not on party politics.” She is to the right of Mitch McConnell! Jesus Christ with this woman! I can’t even can’t.

Okay, Cunt or Nutcase, you decide. And enjoy her hair flipping below.

News of the crazy new restrictions to abortion rights in Texas has triggered memories of the abortion I had at seventeen. I’d been living in London for a little over a year and I was deep into a relationship with a 21 year old student. I don’t remember what I was doing for birth control, but it obviously didn’t work.

I remember bring surprised, but pleased. I think I thought it was romantic to be a teenage mother, and it awakened my urge to nurture. As an unloved kid, I harbored the fantasy of a loving mother-child bond. At first the boyfriend adjusted to the idea of fatherhood and said he was up for it. But then he changed his mind. I had to have an abortion, or we were through.

I called my mom in California, and asked her if I could move back in with her and have the baby. She whined, “Can’t you get him to marry you?” She wasn’t up for it either. So the boyfriend  arranged an abortion with his family doctor, and I went to have the procedure in a daze, courtesy of the National Health system. You know the phrase “railroaded into” something? I was railroaded into the abortion.

I awoke from the anesthesia in a recovery room, next to a few other girls in hospital beds. The boyfriend came to visit me later in the day, and sat on my bed. But he couldn’t stop ogling the girl next to me, who wore some kind of sexy baby doll pajamas. I struggled miserably to get his attention. He informed me that a guy we knew had overdosed and died.

Fifty years later, I recall my hurt feelings as if it were yesterday. Why do our painful moments have to cling like this, to be etched so deeply that they can come to life in a flash? Why don’t our happy moments flood our brains like the bad ones? When my Mexican-American mother-in-law was 103 years old, she still recalled the little girl who called her a “beaner” in elementary school, and told me the story again and again.

I am staunchly pro-choice like any normal person, but it occurs to me that at 17, I didn’t have a choice. No one offered me one. I didn’t have the money to take care of myself, and my boyfriend threatened to leave me. I think I should have had a choice, even though I was not equipped for motherhood. It still bothers me.

Many years later, I was unhappily married and having an affair with an amiable stoner who was good at sex and had a lot of free time. I was horrified to find my self pregnant, evidently still a moron about birth control. Having the stoner’s baby was unthinkable. I had a young child at home. And my husband would find out about the affair.

So I went to have an abortion from a doctor who asked me when I showed up, “What’s the matter with you? You look depressed.” Afterwards, I had to get home before my husband returned from work. To my furious contempt, he never noticed that I lied on the couch all evening, barely able to contain my “discomfort” as they say in the medical trade. What a fucking dope. He was the same guy who railroaded me when I was seventeen.

That second time, I was very depressed but not in any doubt about the decision I’d made. I wouldn’t want to imagine a world where I would be forced to have that stoner’s baby. It’s just unthinkable.

Girls and women should have real choices  about whether or not to get pregnant and whether or not to go forward with a pregnancy. It should be their decision alone to make. Ideally, no one would be as stupid or lax about birth control as I was, but things happen. Fetuses aren’t babies and seeds aren’t trees. If the pro-life people would adopt all the world’s unwanted children, disabled or starving or orphaned, then we might take them seriously.

As it is, we all know that the unborn are way more important to them than the born.

Girls, my best advice is to find a means of birth control you can live with, keep some Plan B handy, and stay away from guys who won’t have your back in your worst moments. Wait, also remember to vote sane people into office, or you end up with Gregg Abbot, Kristy “I’m Batshit Crazy” Noem, and Ron DeSantis, who in a better world would all have been aborted before or after the sixth week.

If you have a story you want to share, step right up. xo

I’m having a big fight with my sister but I don’t have to worry about her reading this because the fight was about her refusal to read my blog.

I don’t feel she’s obliged to read my blog. I’m just fascinated by her militant stance about not reading it. A couple of years ago, I realized that she hadn’t read something I thought she would enjoy, and asked why she didn’t read it.

She said, “I already know you in real life. So I don’t need to read it!” She sounded really annoyed. My husband still thinks this is funny, and he likes to say stuff like, “Did Bob Dylan’s brother say that, when Bob wanted to play him a song?”

So, I’m not Bob Dylan, but it might be a useful analogy because it implies an inexplicable resistance and an absurd excuse for it.

But, unbelievably, it came up again last week when my sister wanted to list words we hate, and I said, “Oh, guess what, I just wrote a thing about that on my blog! Go look, it’s a great list.”

God I am stupid.

She wouldn’t look and said derisively, “I didn’t realize I had to read it NOW.” Reflexively, I asked, “Can you tell me again why you have this fatwa against reading my shit?”

This was texting, by the way. She changed the subject, leaving my question hanging there. Now I really wanted an answer, not least because she was withholding one. I kept repeating the question, and she would write back, “I have a stomach ache.” “I need to lie down.” I asked, “Please just finish this sentence: I will not read my sister’s blog because”.

Now she texted, “Please stop”. It reminded me of that Beverly Hills housewife who winds up a fellow housewife and then shrieks, “Staahp!”

I wouldn’t stop. I called her passive aggressive. Eventually, she announces that she received an email from a family member, that was about me.  I didn’t believe this for a moment, so I asked to see it. She said, No, I don’t have to show it to you.

I called her and offered her $500 to show the nonexistent email to me. When she refused, I offered $1,000, and she still refused! Now I was laughing hysterically. I called her a  pathological liar and advised getting professional help.

So we aren’t talking. I could apologize for insisting on a question she was not equipped to answer. We could go back to our close relationship, and wait for the next bitter conflict.

I wish I could stop trying to get answers from people! No matter how badly you want one, no matter how desperately you try to get one, there is only silence. Or a lie about an email. Or a defensive complaint about being expected to just be honest. People want to be how they are without having to justify behavior. Fair enough. Or not?

Most of the time, I know the answer but just want the person to acknowledge it. Then it becomes a harangue and oops, you are a monster because you won’t give up. In my heart, I believe that I’m willing to answer any question to the best of my ability. It is a feather in my fucking cap. Just try me!

But. A couple of weeks ago, I had a big fight with my wonderful husband (who will read this) when he referred to my hair as “brown.” I flew into a rage and demanded that he call it “blonde.” When he punted, I ran around the house going “BROWN? Brown! Really??”

I have been inside my house for way too long now. It’s too much. My three modes are boredom, anxiety, or wondering if I’m actually dead already. Actually no, that’s a lie, there is “TV Time” in the evening, when we smoke some weed and I enter the reality of Our Shows. If Netflix isn’t the only thing preventing the complete collapse of civilization, I will eat my hat, and yours too.

Let’s pretend you live in another solar system and you don’t follow celebrity gossip. I’ll try to get you up to date. Asia Argento is an Italian actress with a penchant for the dark side. She’s covered in tattoos and she likes to be shocking. Anthony Bourdain fell in love with her in the last year of his life. She has been a leading voice in the #MeToo movement, having publicly accused Harvey Weinstein of raping her in a hotel room.

Okay, so recently, it was reported that Argento paid hush money to Jimmy Bennett, a 22 year old actor who claims she sexually assaulted him when he was 17 years old, a crime in California, where the incident allegedly took place.

Argento made a statement denying Bennett’s story, insisting that he had been trying to extort money from her for some time. She denied having any physical relationship with the actor, who played her young son in a film she directed years ago.

But people got mad, because that’s what they do. They called Argento a hypocrite and  whore, and took out their anger on Rose McGowan, another outspoken #MeToo leader (and Weinstein victim) who had formed a close friendship with Argento.

Poor Rose McGowan didn’t know what to believe, but asked her followers to “be gentle.” This inflamed people even more. Why should they be gentle to Asia Argento, who had not favored gentleness toward Harvey Weinstein?

So then, TMZ published some private texts between Asia and an unnamed person, who presumably had leaked it. In their conversation, Argento admits to having sex with the actor, who “was horny” and “jumped her bones” in a hotel room. (note: stay out of hotel rooms.)

So now, we have Asia admitting she did it! But she’s pissed off because she herself had an older lover when she was 17; big deal. Plus, Anthony was the one who wanted to shut the actor up, fearing it would harm her reputation.

But then, someone leaks Asia’s text conversation with Bourdain, in which he offers to pay the actor $380,000, if that’s what she wants. He can see that Bennett is a screwed-up person and feels sorry for him. Of course, Anthony Bordain can’t weigh in, because he killed himself a few months ago.

In the days prior to Bourdain’s suicide, Argento was photographed in Rome, holding hands and making out with a young journalist. THIS DOES NOT MAKE HER GUILTY FOR HIS DEATH. And yet.

Now, pay attention! Rose McGowan has made a long statement, conceding that Argento molested the young actor, and should be held responsible for her actions.

How does she know Argento is guilty? Because the person who leaked the stuff to TMZ is none other than Rose’s partner, Rain Dove!

Now, Rain Dove is a model whose pronoun is they. McGowan refers to them as a “being” in her statement about how she came to learn the truth about Asia, who may not be a being but is certainly a cunt, I feel it is safe to say at this point.

Here is how Rose says she wised up:

But then everything changed. In an instant. I received a phone call and series of messages from the being I’ve been dating- Rain Dove. They said that they had been texting with Asia and that Asia had revealed that she had indeed slept with Jimmy Bennet. Rain also shared that Asia had stated that she’d been receiving unsolicited nudes of Jimmy since he had been 12. Asia mentioned in these texts that she didn’t take any action on those images. No reporting to authorities, to the parents, or blocking of Jimmy’s social media. Not even a simple message “Don’t send me these images. They are inappropriate.” There were a few other details revealed as well that I am not at liberty to mention in this statement as investigators do their job.

She had me at “being,” obviously. I mean, what more could you want here, except for Anthony Bourdain to have never crossed paths with Asia Argento??

If you were the god in charge of shit like this, what would you want to happen next? Please show your work, unless it’s a mystery to be revealed in the fullness of time.

My meds don’t work anymore but I’m afraid to get off them. Effexor is notorious for terrible withdrawal symptoms like dizziness, nausea, migraines, nightmares, brain zaps, insomnia and more. Drug companies prefer the word “discontinuation” to “withdrawal.” They warn you to seek your doctor’s help if you want to stop taking your meds; they know you will be fucked, no matter how slowly you titrate down.

My prescribing doctor insists that I should try adding Abilify. Call me crazy but I don’t want to add drowsiness, weight gain, blurred vision, drooling, restlessness and possible tardive dyskinesia to my current panoply of “challenges.” He has written prescriptions several times, saying, “What’s the worst that can happen?”

The original literature on Ability says:

[it] can be effective in treating the acute manic episodes of bipolar disorder in adults, adolescents and children. However, its effect is only useful for the manic phases with little or no effect on the depressive phases.

Abilify is an expensive drug and so naturally the strategy is, Just use it for other shit as an add-on! If I wanted some more debilitating side effects, I could just stuff my face and bang my head with a frying pan every day.

If you’re taking antidepressants, you probably had a compelling reason to start. But no one ever says, “Hey, you’re functioning pretty good now, let’s get you off these meds!” And no one knows the long term consequences for your poor brain.

Once in a while, I forget to take my Effexor. I can always tell the next morning, because one day without them triggers epic nightmares of blood pouring from the ceiling or worse.

I’m never going to be “happy” in the usual sense. I would settle for miserable. Meanwhile, my brain is stuck in exhausting circular rumination and an urge to be unconscious. I keep wondering about the purpose of life. Not just mine, but mine most acutely.

Do normal people wonder about this? I just don’t know. What are they thinking about instead?

Does anyone have any advice that isn’t a personal horror story? Or if you must, I’ll listen to your horror story. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

*

All my life, I’ve wondered what the fuck is wrong with me. I’m curious and reflective by nature, and relentless about trying to figure shit out.

I find it amazing that other people aren’t consumed by questions about their own psyche but I accept that most people are focused on other matters. Good for them.

Me, I know I’m fucked up. Chronically depressed is one way for me to understand why I’m always sad, tired, hopeless, and easily annoyed. But it isn’t enough. There is also a complete lack of will to do anything useful.

As a teenager, I was thrilled to discover the term neurasthenic. What a romantic-sounding Victorian condition, and one that seemed to cover all my bases. I could think of myself lying on a velvet fainting couch, one pale arm dangling listlessly toward the floor. Neurotic doesn’t sound as appealing. That goes double for Fibromyalgia.

So imagine my excitement at discovering a WHOLE NEW DIAGNOSIS that doesn’t even exist yet in the US. Ready? It’s called PDA, or Pathological Demand Avoidance. It’s considered “a behaviour profile within the autism spectrum.”

Those who present with this particular diagnostic profile are driven to avoid everyday demands and expectations to an extreme extent. This demand avoidant behaviour is rooted in an anxiety-based need to be in control.

Well, I wouldn’t have thought of myself as autistic, but the description feels so right, so resonant, so me:

• • resists and avoids the ordinary demands of life
  • uses social strategies as part of avoidance, eg distracting, giving excuses
  • appears sociable, but lacks understanding
  • experiences excessive mood swings and impulsivity
  • appears comfortable in role play and pretence
  • displays obsessive behaviour that is often focused on other people.

Furthermore, “People with this profile can appear controlling and dominating, especially when they feel anxious. However, they can also be enigmatic and charming when they feel secure and in control. It’s important to acknowledge that these people have a hidden disability. ”

Godammit! I have a fucking disability! I would like one of those things for my car. I want everyone to know that IT’S NOT MY FAULT. Instead of regarding myself as the laziest person on earth, or some kind of incurable renegade, I can explain my entire life with PDA.

It’s the reason I didn’t go to high school, didn’t learn a trade or profession, didn’t want to apply for any job unless it was absolutely imperative, and managed to get fired from nearly every one of them. It’s a feeling of NO, I WON’T that is underlaid with a profound sense of BECAUSE I CAN’T.

PDA diagnoses are split equally between the sexes, unlike other ASD’s. Maybe having a Girlie Brain is another feature of PDA, for all I know. Or maybe it has helped me to work around it.

When we look at our own behavior, or the behavior of others, we tend to see it through a particular lens. If we don’t believe in psychology or genetics, we label rude people as assholes. We can label reclusive people “unsociable”. If you’re in Al-Anon, you view people as “enablers” or Co-dependent. Using a lens informed by a wider understanding, you might suspect that someone is autistic, or bi-polar, or suffering from social anxiety. The more you know about brain science and genetics, the more you can appreciate the complexities of personality and behavior.

Just as we know that Donald Trump is a monumental cunt, we understand that he is driven by pathological neediness and insecurity. It doesn’t help us, but it’s just good to know.

Now I’m relieved to know (i.e., believe) that I’m not a lazy underachieving piece of shit, but rather a poor thing with a Disability. So there, haters.

Thoughts, arguments, or counter-diagnoses?