He told me once that he had become accustomed to running home from the train station in order to avoid not only the racial slurs, but threats and violence, broken bottles, bricks, etc that greeted him when he emerged from the train station. Because his hair was long and his skin was olive, he was a terrorist. He was responsible for the 9-11 tragedy. He and all other Muslims.
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She went from being a “professional negro” sex kitten wearing Marilyn Monroe’s dresses to cocktail lounges in the fifties to shrieking and moaning in civil rights protest with Max Roach in the sixties to being a movie star to being a dramatic storyteller…
...read more hereTwo memes in a row? Really? I’ve been kind of out of it, very busy with fast-approaching deadlines, sleep deprived, [insert more excuses here], etc. I’ve been a little angry and a little frustrated and not much able to put words together coherently. I was going to write a lighthearted post about my girlfriend from down the way and her little run-in with free-mason based conspiracy theories… but I just can’t right now
...read more hereI had a spectacular post all written out in my head, but by the time I got here I just… I don’t know. It was about my mother. Family drama. Phone calls. Something like that. Maybe I’ll write a reflection on it later this week. As for right now, though, here’s a meme:
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Based on a conversation with (or diatribe from) my mother about half an hour ago. She told me I was a “tick under her skin that she couldn’t get out.” I told her I was not that difficult to get rid of.
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Him: Did you try [insert moronically obvious solution here]?
Me: Yes, I tried that already. It doesn’t work.
Bubble thought: Because I would be sitting here like a dunce scratching my head without having tried that.
I don’t know why I have a therapist. Okay, yes I do: ’twas the doctor’s order. But on the real tip (as the older cats say) I don’t know why I have a therapist. Don’t get me wrong; she seems like a good person, and she genuinely tries to follow what I say, but talking to her feels like talking to you, and I don’t pay nearly as much to talk to you.
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Back then I always sang along with the lyrics without really hearing them. I thought it was a sweet song back then. I didn’t really know what it was about. Hearing it at Max Brenner’s recently, I decided to look it up again.
Maybe I shouldn’t have done that?
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Some people would call this a funny twist of fate. The Christians might call it divine will. Still other people might call it an asinine and callous error on the part of the pastor’s wife. However you want to put it, something is almost certain to happen. Something.
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I’m superwoman after all. On the one hand, I’m astounded by how much I can accomplish when I sleep less. On the other hand I am amazed by how many stupid errors I make. You know, like when you misspell the word “the” as “teh” and can’t figure out how to correct it? That’s called sleep deprivation.
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