Reincarnation of actual evil after it’s suspected departure in 1945.
“Smart” Cell phones.
That’s why the anxiety.
The edges are peeling up,
The adhesive has dried,
What lies underneath is showing.
The bodies are talking,
The money’s not holding,
There is no more unknowing.
The papers are out,
The names are all listed,
The record of monsters keeps growing.
The kids aren’t alright,
The hole just gets deeper,
All under the green grass we’re mowing.
Took funds allotted for a deadly pandemic
Smiled with her black soul because her corruption is systemic
Purchased a plane to fly 119 miles
She doesn’t need Epstein, she made her own files
With greed, and crime, and blood on her hands
I hope she does jail time while we get Rob Sand
When I was a kid and my Mom wanted me to go to sleep, she’d take my glasses away.
I’ve had poor vision my whole life.
I can still remember the fight, full of tickles and laughter, that preluded the inevitable- blindness.
Most of my upbringing was just me and Mom, and Gramma Bev. I slept in the same bed as my mom until I was eleven, because most of the time it was just us. There was a TV in Mom’s room. She didn’t mind me listening to it while I drifted off.
But in the space between her taking my glasses and her coming to bed, I had learned a trick. If I put my pink blanket, made of soft waffle material with silk edges, over my head and focused one eye through the natural holes of the fabric– I could see! I watched Golden Girls with blanket over my head from 1998 to 2002.
I wish I knew then how lucky I was to be a kid alive at that time. I wish my biggest worry at night was still getting caught watching Golden Girls through a blanket over my head.
I want to hear from the German people who were adults during the holocaust, but were unaffected by it. By unaffected I mean: those who didn’t really know anyone Jewish or gay or brown, and didn’t live in an area forced to observe the lack of humanity. I want to hear from those who were able to turn off the radio and just focus on life inside their own bubble.
How did it feel to later come to understand the horror that was happening the next block over?
Would you have done anything differently knowing what you know now?
It’s no longer different to be on mental health meds.
What does that say?
When I was much younger, maybe 11, I used to wonder why I got so mad and so angry when something wasn’t fair.
I was the squeaky wheel. Writing letters, making posters, leaving messages,making calls. When something wasn’t right, by god, I was going to say something to someone!
But why?
As an adult I now know that what I am feeling is the rage of injustice. I finally have an idea as to why. It’s in our blood. It’s generations of history repeating itself in the form of oppression. It’s in me, because it needed to be.
It’s crushing me. The toddler being held by ICE, the dead mom, the dead nurse. All of this on top of the layer of hate and murder and bigotry that was already there.
Unfortunately my squeak has been squashed. They’re winning. The rage still bubbles, but I’m no longer an energetic kid with little responsibility and lots of time. Without me knowing, that has always been part of the grand plan.
Now the rage just simmers underneath the day to day responsibilities of being an adult, and a parent. Sometimes spilling out on bad drivers and inconsiderate pedestrians.
Misplaced.
Unwanted.
Well justified.
Rage.
John had a health scare, but the more correct thing to say is: everyone who cares about John had a health scare.
Anyway,
the health scare triggered a diet change that we all took (and take) seriously. We learned about sodium, and how much we all over eat it regularly. But especially Jayme…
(Different story: A1 steak sauce)
Anyway again:
One particular Wednesday night dinner, in a month we could sit outside in the Iowa sun, we had oreos for dessert. Each of us were being polite infront of each other, taking two, maybe three, cookies from the package.
As the evening wrapped up, just Heather, John, and I remained at the table. We were shooting the shit while the kids played. Then, John walked away to go do something inside the house.
-then the vibe changed-
Heather and I locked eyes, and instantly transformed from two women born in the late 1900s to two young girls with cookies and absolutely no authority around. In sync, our hands dove into the cookie package and we ravenously packed our mouths with sweet, sweet double stuffed oreos until our lips couldn’t close and we needed our fingers to help contain the cookies in our mouths while we chewed. All this while snorting and laughing between uncoordinated swallows of Oreo.
Then John came back outside. He was coming.
We chewed faster, but that made us laugh harder, and the situation became louder than we anticipated.
By the time John came back to the table we were both a little short of breath, both probably had black teeth, and both starting to come down from our transformation. Both a little confused, but still entertained, at our actions.
Still not sure why we turned into two obnoxious eight year olds, but I don’t want to forget it. I love her. I also really like Oreos.
The real number one killer of human life is:
Stupidity.
Words for humans 