I know I’m not the only one approaching these Midterms with next-level ambivalence. But despite all of the momentum leading up to the election, I can’t help but feel like I’m riding a ferris wheel whose back end has been hacked off.
I have anxiety, which means that I’m always thinking about the worst possible scenario, and that scenario is equally as likely to happen as a normal day. Looting zombie bears are only a matter of time.
Who else feels like there’s a Senate Judiciary Committee meeting in their heads right now? Half the voices are thanking you for your bravery as if your bravery were enough. Half the voices are calling you insufficient and you wish you didn’t believe them.
Who else feels like the sweet spot is there, and you’re just too salty for it?
They don’t grow so much as they explode like a virus in a sneeze. Someone plants one spiny little bitch without asking, and before you know it you’ve got blackberries creeping through the dirt in the raised beds you built yourself… all you can think about are the broad green leaves you picked, planted, worked for, wanted, but will never see.
I don’t have a burden of proof to satisfy in order to say what I know, in my gut, is true. You know why I don’t have proof? Because most sexual assaults don’t happen in front of witnesses. You know why my gut tells me it’s true? Because mine didn’t. Not any of them.
I just read Jian Ghomeshi's piece in the New York Review of Books. Yes, the whole thing. Yes, multiple times. I await some sort of prize for reading the entire bag of lukewarm bile without putting my fist through a wall, vomiting into the fist-hole, and dropping my phone into the vomit in the fist hole while saying, "I FUCKING QUIT."