It’s the end of the world as we know it. And CNN, with its 24/7 disaster-porn news coverage, wants you to feel fine.
Now, there’s absolute truth to the science behind global climate change and the great shitstorm it brings forth. It’s something we should all be aware of, plan for, and work to make better — for our children and our children’s children. It’s why I recycle, resist watering my lawn*, and force myself to sit through An Inconvenient Truth whenever it’s on TV and I can’t find anything better on HBO.
But CNN… com’on already. No amount of Anderson Cooper in soggy Baby Gap tees or Chris Cuomo reflexively flexing into the wind (think Juandissimo Magnifico in a water-logged turbine farm) will negate the meteorological bloodlust I see in your eyes. The constant barrage of projected landfalls & whorling radars no doubt has many viewers ready to bend over and kiss their ass goodbye. But ha! — joke’s on you, CNN – I’m way too fat and immalleable to bend over and kiss anything. #merica
Instead, I watch your broadcasts with the same sort of mild revulsion I usually reserve for people who say “bruh!” every five seconds or cite The Rock as their role model. This. Must. Stop. You’ve oversaturated (yes, I get the irony) not only the airwaves but the proletariat. What’s the old argument about the dangers of prolonged exposure to violence in the media – that it’s found to decrease empathy and have a desensitizing effect on the viewer? Yeah, I think we’re there.
And it’s an absolute shame. Because disaster survivors NEED our empathy and support right now. They need to know they’re not forgotten or brushed aside for the next big hurricane or earthquake or Russian prostitute/pissing scandal. Instead, like junkies chasing your next big high, you’re holed up in the Ritz-Carleton waiting to film another Irma-related live shot. It’s a little distasteful.
I’m not suggesting you lay off entirely, just maybe chill out a bit. Send Anderson Cooper back home, and drop Chris Cuomo off at the Planet Fitness of his choosing. Give us all a little breathing room. Oh, and maybe stop openly lusting for Armageddon (no matter how fantastic the ratings might be). And here’s my promise to you: allowed the time and space to process everything– like the butterfly you’ve loved and set free — we’ll no doubt come back to you. Unless we can find something better on HBO, that is.
* mostly I just resist because it cuts down on mowing
When you speak in absolutes, you box yourself in. There’s no room for change or growth or evolution of thought.
That said… I absolutely hate Donald J. Trump.
One kiddo is currently having the time of her life sunning herself in beautiful, exotic Costa Rica. The other is the most together 16-year-old I know and is about to embark on her junior year of high school. Both are happy, healthy, independent, take-no-prisoners women who make me proud on a daily basis. When I lay awake late into the night with the litany of things I’ve done wrong (or simply not done at all) flickering behind my eyelids like some celluloid waking nightmare… It’s them who saves me.
I cannot be all bad if I’m loved by the caliber of people who do, indeed, love me.
I am blessed. I am content. I am grateful.
You were supposed to protect me. You didn’t.
There’s a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.
I’m missing you a lot today. Well, that implies I don’t miss you every day, which I do. But today it’s hitting a little harder I suppose. Maybe it’s the time of year? I know how much you love summer, with its sandy beaches, ice-cream-sticky fingers, and long, lazy nights fading into unclouded & radiant mornings.
Maybe it’s the fact that both your sisters were home last night talking about relationships and school and where the future might take them. And as I sat and smiled and thought about how incredible they both are, I found myself buckling under the weight of missing you.
Grief is like that, you know? Some days it’s as light as a feather, others it feels like a two-ton elephant sitting right on your chest. And I don’t say this to denounce, diminish or cast aside the sadness – because to feel is to remember, and I never want to forget you.
I just wish you’d been here last night.
In my mind’s eye, I see the three of you lounging around the living room, speaking over each other and (to great comic effect) competing for attention. I see good natured ribbing along with a healthy dose of genuine sibling advice and support being offered and accepted. I see three gentle spirits and bright shining stars rotating within my orbit, and I am temporarily happy and content. Then I remember you’re gone.
But you’re still a part of the big picture, I know. You’re my big picture and you always will be. I like to think of you as endless and transcendent now: a part of time, space, and matter. Your orbit is bigger; your star shines brighter, and your gentle spirit is finally at peace with everything around it.
Rest easy, sweet boy.
I don’t know what sort of Sapphic nightmare landscape vaginas you people have been looking at, but Georgia O’Keeffe’s flower paintings aren’t all that genitalia-ish to me.
Now Gustave Courbet’s L’Origine du monde — that’s a vagina.
I have the attention span of a gnat. I don’t know if it’s ADHD, old age, a sensory processing disorder, or if I just plain don’t give a shit about half the things I should. Trying to pay a handful of bills becomes a three-hour process when you’re continually sidetracked by musings like “When’s the last time I vacuumed the dryer vent?” to “I really should order one of those emergency ladder thingies in case the dryer catches fire” to “if my house burns down and I have to go to the hospital, what are the odds I’ll be wearing non-saggy, rip-free underwear?” … to 45 minutes spent on macys.com looking for the perfect bra & panty set (not too slutty, but still indicating I haven’t completely given up) to checking my bank account to see if $167.29 on Bali bras is prudent at this juncture (the answer is almost always “No.”), to “Oh, that’s right, goddammit, I have bills to pay!”
The hamster wheel in my mind no doubt overheats on a regular basis. Which gets me wondering … when’s the last time I vacuumed it out?