If you can read this, you’re a better man than me, because when I google this site I get a blank page, a warning, or some Japanese text.

I had malware removed but still. I have spent countless hours on the phone with real and robotic tech support. One guy yesterday told me his life story including his height and weight. You’ll be glad to know he bought a high-end Nikon camera for a fraction of its worth! Yay, him!

I have received lists of problems with this website, few of which make any sense to me as a civilian and not a coder.

I NEED A GOD DAMN CODER!

If you are a web developer or know a good one, please hook me up, to put me out of my misery. I can’t take any more frustration. Helplessness is bad for the human organs and nervous system. My cortisone is at a deadly level.

Hell is not other people, it is WordPress.

Oh good, I just uploaded this picture of me in the emergency room last month, admiring my socks, only to see that all my images have disappeared!

Wait, they’re back. Whew.

Please either help me or kill me, your choice.

Granular is a word that’s starting to make me wince, maybe because of the people who use it or maybe because it’s so onomatopoeic.  I can almost feel it in my shoe, like sand. Nevertheless, I just came across a new theory that I love, involving “emotional granularity.” Just as you would suspect, it means getting into the minutia of emotions, the gradations that distinguish one type of anger, let’s say, from another.

Apparently, it helps to label an emotion when you’re trying to manage it. I guess that makes sense, if only because stopping to label it is a form of counting to ten. You also have to accept the notion that there are all kinds of anger, and in other cultures there are kinds we may not have experienced or named.

Germans have a word that means “a face in need of a slap,”or backpfeifengesicht. I’m not really familiar with that feeling but I’ve heard men talk about “the kind of face you want to punch.” Mandarin Chinese has a word for anger directed toward oneself; that one is familiar and ongoing. Ancient Greeks distinguished between short-term anger (orge ) and a long-lasting anger that’s permanent (menin.)

In Thailand, there’s seven degrees of anger, starting with displeasure and ending with (just guessing) homicidal rage.

So anyway, your ability to distinguish between the many varieties of your emotional experiences can help you cope better. If you can say to yourself, “That guy is an annoying cunt” instead of “Why are people so awful!” you will be less depressed and less given to binge drinking. Studies have shown, alright?

I have already written about the varieties of misery experienced in other countries but not anger. I think that in the U.S, people are experiencing new and debilitating forms of anger that probably need to be labeled, like the kind you feel when people with Southern accents talk about Christianity. Or the kind you feel when you listen to Tucker Carlson. And the kind you feel when reading about immigrants in cages.

What about the kind you feel when the person in line in front of you at Starbucks has a ridiculous order? After all these years, I still have that one!!! What about when the thing you wanted at a great sale price is no longer available in your size?

What about the kind when you see Taylor Swift trying to dance? Or the kind when someone starts talking about “the program”? So many types of anger, yearning to be named.

I often have the one when your husband keeps reflexively contradicting you. Today, I experienced the anger you feel when your dog eats your toast because you looked away for ONE FUCKING SECOND at your Instagram feed.

So, what do you guys think? Angry? Is it the kind where you thought reading a blog would be entertaining but it was just a waste of time? Are you buying the concept of emotional granularity and can you name an emotion that needs it’s own label, like schadenfreude? I’m going to call that Tucker Carlson feeling tuckerschmerz. And I’m hoping that this time next year, it will be a fading memory rather than menin .

I’m not one to look for old friends on Facebook and I usually ignore those fake requests from LinkedIn. I don’t care about my ancestry and I’m not interested in friends from high school because for one thing, I didn’t go to high school. Mostly I’m content to just keep tabs on the Ex-wife, as I’ve mentioned before. If I need to feel smarter than somebody, she always delivers.

But a few weeks ago, I clicked on a LinkedIn notice, and while there, it occurred to me to look for the Tragedy. Something must have triggered this. Maybe something I watched on TV. So I typed in his name and there he was! No photo, and only one job listed, one that had ended. I sent a request to join his network and then returned to my regular programming.

It was a surprise when he responded with a long reply. It was great to hear from me! He had found my blog a few years ago, and had read the archives. He was so sorry about Max. He had thought of writing to me a thousand times. My writing was so good! He even read my stuff at Miista! As for him, he’d moved back to his hometown. He had never married.

My predominant feeling, my only feeling, was outrage.

WHAT?!? You read about the loss of my son and didn’t have the decency to express your condolences? How hard would that be? There’s the risk that I’d be annoyed, but please. I personally have written to strangers after reading about their loss. A senator, a governor, a regular person. I just want to offer sympathy and if possible, some words of comfort.

Then there’s the general feeling of being stalked. Stalked in the sense of reading all about my life and my thoughts without making a peep. It feels invasive. Even though I write for the entire world, I don’t expect the people I know to pore over my blog. It’s not a group letter about my vacation in Paris, France. I write from a need to express myself, to send a message in a bottle to someone who might relate or understand.

Okay, so there I am, fuming. I read the letter to my husband, who says Big deal, what’s so enraging? I read it to my sister, who says, Oh my god, what a fucker! This is one reason to have a sister. A huge reason.

I called a friend who I’d met at the bookstore, who had known the Tragedy and knew the whole story. His reaction was, Aw, how nice, and what a sweet guy. Ha. I reminded him of all the times we would argue about the best candidate to anally penetrate the Tragedy, thereby to teach him a thing or two. It came down to Vince Neil versus Steven Tyler. The debates were fierce, and accompanied by hysterical laughter.

Such was my bitterness at being rejected.

I could have ignored the letter but instead, I chose to reply and be direct. I wrote back:

But you broke my heart! So callously!

The last time we spoke, you looked me right in the eye and said, “I was never in love with you.” Said with no affect.

Would you like to moderate that in any way?

He did want to moderate it, in fact. And the whole affair came rushing back to me, a delirious mixture of bliss and despair.

After all we have endured from this piece of shit, it’s hard to believe that his comment about abortion is the thing that broke the spell.

Who knew that people cared so much about women’s rights? It seemed like a majority of Americans were in favor of rolling back Roe vs Wade, and that’s been scary.

But lo and behold, Trump’s absurd statement that women who have abortions should be punished is striking a chord with everyone. For some reason, this is where they’re drawing the line.

I hope.

The news is telling me tonight that the tide has turned. Please make it be true!

Remember when it was fun to see Trump’s bloated red face, emitting outrageous noises that no one in their right mind would ever say if they were running for President, or even Boyscout Leader?

The fun turned to horror, didn’t it? I head a reporter call him a ‘steaming pile of human refuse’ on MSNBC the other night, and it felt like an understatement.

Now we’re hearing that women won’t support Tump, which makes perfect sense, but what the fuck has been wrong with men in that case?

Racism doesn’t begin to explain the attraction. Neither does the ‘people are sick of the status quo’ argument. They could have sided with Rand Paul if all they wanted was a maverick.

What is it about a fat loud bully that American men find so appealing? Is it some kind of projection? Is it a vicarious thrill to see some shameless lowlife insulting his betters?

My visceral hatred of this cunt has reached defcon whatever. His every facial movement is like a knife in my heart. That O-shape he makes with his mouth. The plump frown. The crazy hand motions and the way he says “believe me” twice after every ridiculous lie.

Is it over for real? Can we actually get out of this without anyone getting killed? Wouldn’t that be wonderful?

I blame the press. I blame Donald Trump’s parents. And I blame the Idiocracy that America’s anti-intellectualism has spawned. Feel more comfortable with stupidity, America? How stupid is stupid enough?

Sure, Ted Cruz is a crazy prick and Kasich is a jerk. But there is nothing on earth as awful as Donald Trump.

Let us pray.

A few days ago, I got up from the deathbed of my flu to see about the sawing noise from my backyard.

A guy was building something right next to my fence, a wooden thing that towered around three or four feet above the six-foot fence.

As someone who has had enough of neighbors and their fucking fences or add-ons that block the sun like a nuclear winter, I was immediately incensed.

I demanded, “What are you doing?” in a hostile tone and the guy pretended not to speak English. Another guy who I couldn’t see also pretended to not speak English until I yelled, “I’ll bet this isn’t legal!”

The invisible guy asked me what my problem was, and the fact that he spoke English made me furious. He said something like, “What’s it to you?” My feeling was, I don’t want to see a thing towering over my fence because I just don’t, motherfucker! How dare you!

I issued some nebulous threats and stomped back inside. I was ready to kill. I nearly peed. I looked up the local building codes and found a complaint form and some phone numbers.

A couple of days later, still wearing the same smelly pajamas, I decided to go over there to get the address. A couple of people milling around refused to speak to me.

Then an old guy appeared and said, I’m the owner of this building, what’s the problem?

I told him that I was concerned about the huge shed he was building and he insisted it was nothing for me to worry about. He asked me if I wanted to go back and look at it.

We went back and I could see that he was adding on to a storage shed for one of his tenants, and we discussed the property line. He said he’d been there for 35 years, as if to say, Back off, newcomer. I retorted, “Well, my husband was born in this neighborhood, and he’s 65!” I felt an atavistic aggression coursing through my veins and I also felt like a big angry baby.

I said, “What are those nails sticking out for?” in an accusatory tone, and he explained that he was hoping to grow some beans but it didn’t work out.

Maybe it was the failed beans.

Something shifted in my deranged territorial psyche and I realized that he was just a human being living his life.

He assured me that he planned to paint the shed to make it look nicer. He told me that he came here from Cuba, where he was an accountant. He told me that he likes to build things. He revealed that he had gone to school with Fidel Castro and had fought along side him in the revolution. But of course the revolution tuned bad, so he had sent his wife and kids to Miami before fleeing for his life.

I asked him what he thought of Ted Cruz (hated him but likes Rubio) and we talked about our mutual contempt for Donald Trump. He’s a Republican like many exiles but it was all good. He showed me his mango trees and we shared our disappointment in our attempts to grow lemons.

His name is Felix and he’s 87 or 89, I forgot which. I apologized for getting off to a bad start with him. I said I’d enjoyed talking to him. He said something like, “Yes. I like to talk, sometimes too much!”

I turned around to look up at him and said, “Me too! But that makes the world go around. We need to communicate and connect!”

His smile was so unexpected, his first smile, and lit up his face like a happy child’s.

I went home and announced, “Well, I have a new best friend.”

I don’t want to lose my edge, okay? I still want to start fights and hold grudges. But people are starting to worry about me. This is the third time in the last year that I’ve laid down my arms, so to speak, and found something better.

It’s still Easter Sunday here in California. Maybe I’m Jesus!

Reading the New York Times online, I just got sidetracked by a link that said: “Worried about your memory? 5 Signs   it’s Serious.”

As it happens, I have no short-term memory and little of the other kind either. People are constantly mad at me for forgetting things I’m supposed to remember.   They point out that I’ve told the same story twice, and that I’ve already seen a movie I have no recollection of. The signs are all there.

But memory problems are also common in people with PTSD, fibromyalgia, and a couple of other conditions that apply to me but I forgot what they are. I’m not joking here, either.

So, I’m reading this list of warning signs and going Yep, yep, I have  Alzheimer’s, I’m screwed, when I get to number 5, Having Trouble With Choices, and I come upon this quote:

“If you used to be a definitive person and now you can’t work your way through choices, that’s a red flag,” psychiatrist Ken Robbins says. “Choosing involves enough cognitive powers — remembering what you like, thinking about how the options differ, and thinking about what you want now — that it’s a problem that shows up early on.”

DEFINITIVE?!?!? What the fuck?! That bastard means “decisive” and he used  the  wrong word! They’re not  interchangeable, Dr. Ken Robbins, Moron Esq.! English, motherfucker! Do you speak it? Where is the fucking editor??

I’m trying to calm down. But it’s hard. And now I can see my future: I will be hopelessly bereft of all memory, including my own name, rank and serial number, but I’ll be flipping out about word usage with my last dying breath.