It drains the body to think about this all day but there is no way to stop thinking about this, especially when there is another death and another death and another death. There is another protest, there is another officer hurling a rock at high schoolers, there is another misguided person bringing up black on black crime, there is another fundamental misunderstanding of a Martin Luther King Jr. quote, there is another Tweet from someone valuing personal property over black lives, there is always another. My mom watched Ferguson on the news and texted me about the similarities to the Civil Rights protests when she was a kid, accidentally reminding me that we have been fighting a never-ending fight, and that I will never be a person worth more than hoses or rubber bullets. I think about the future and feel disgustingly, guiltily thankful I was not born with a maternal instinct or any desire for kids; the thought of bringing a black child into a world that actively tries to eliminate black lives leaves me frozen in fear, depressed in a way that even diagnosed depression never prepared for me.
Some poems from our own beloved Marika Prokosh, of Spinster’s Almanac fame.
Mallory and her REDACTED and I are having a wonderful time. I have cooked many fine meats, and today the three of us are working out with my trainer in order to evaluate REDACTED in the most intimate context of all: value as a workout partner.
Mallory and I also watched Frozen (not the Disney movie, the horror movie about those three doofuses who got trapped on the ski lift overnight) and it was a real good time, except for the ending, which was mediocre at BEST.
Just a blatant, nepotistic reminder for you to read my Aunt Joanne’s piece about her time as an administrator of two different women’s shelters, and then share it on all forms of social media. Also, my GOD, the Gaudy Night piece!
A Completely Unbiased Review of a Local Rock Show By Someone With No Connections To the Band:
The four musicians played the rest of their set like a bunch of medium-talent, delusional, backstabbing traitors, incapable of understanding that the magic of Stiff Lightning’s music was never about the chords or the rhythms but actually was about the dynamic between the original five members, a dynamic that is now thrown completely out of whack and could never possibly be recreated, even if they decided to hire a new keyboardist down the line, because there is no way a new keyboardist could ever understand the spirit of the band, because that is something that can never be taught to even the most skilled musician, but instead must be lived by somebody who was there since the beginning, and therefore the rest of the band members might as well resign themselves to being human-shaped excrement who play music only to distract themselves from their hollow simulacra of existence, wherein death could only be an improvement on their pathetic keyboardist-less little lives.
I’m intrigued to see where this series will go:
Keep in mind that plenty of people know every bit as much as I do about our history, doctrine, and culture, and they still love the Church more than you love Peanut M&Ms. They believe a different story than the one you hear on Sundays, maybe, but it’s a legitimate belief system that brings meaning and happiness to their world. It doesn’t work for me, but it might easily work for you. I think that’s a decision you deserve to make for yourself, and one you can’t make well until you have more information.
I had SUCH a great workout yesterday that instead of sharing a picture of it, I am doing a FEEL THE BURN on Thursday in which I break it down for you piece by piece. No equipment, you can easily do it at home with a timer app, and it’s going to push your heartrate AND work allll of your muscle groups using only the power of your own bodyweight.
