Sharky Night Hag

Add photoshop to the 2017 resolutions...

The other night I dreamt about sharks swimming in the sky. They were swimming through the air, and I watched from high on a hill, overlooking a valley. Like ocean currents, there were layers of the wind. Leaves were blowing in one layer, and sharks swimming above.
This is the third time in the last month I dreamt of shark swimming (or flying) in the sky. I'm having a hard time understanding what the message is, and based on the reoccurrence of it, I'm assuming I haven't reached the correct conclusion. From what I've been reading, the meaning of these shark dreams aren't so great. A looming threat about a person who, like a shark, takes whatever they want, or expecting the worst in someone, or an omen about "dangerous water." However, in the dream I'm not scared, but rather impressed and captivated. The best I've come up with is some sort of message about coexisting with fear.

I read a post about Mugwort Body Oil as a way to enhance dreaming, and I ordered some, hoping to gain insight into whatever the universe is trying to tell me. The oil can be used to promote lucid dreaming, as well. I'm going to avoid lucid dreaming, hoping the dream will unfold without putting in that kind of work. The reason I'm hesitant about lucid dreaming is due to a period in high school where I became terrified of falling asleep because of sleep paralysis, also known as the Night Hag. To this day, I don't sleep on my back because I realized this brought on the horror of becoming wide awake in the mind, but still having my body asleep, so I'd lay in bed paralyzed, yelling at myself to open my eyes.
During this time, I read "freaking out" (the internal yelling) is the worst reaction, and remaining calm will allow one to use these moments as an opportunity to go on a celestial exploration. I was a bit too wounded by my past experiences to turn my poop into poop juice, but by practicing a calm state of being, I was able to ease myself back to sleep the next time I came into this night terror, and it was an extreme comfort.
To say I smoked weed throughout high school is an understatement, and if there is one thing I'd go back and change it'd be not to fall into the peer pressure of obliterating my afternoons with mindlessness when I could have been getting a head start on life, but alas, everything is a learning experience, even years of lackluster inactivity, for if it weren't for them, I'd probably not realize how important it is for me to live life passionately. The Night Hag and extremely potent NorCal ganja were most likely correlated because after going to college and completely stopping marijuana, I don't have anymore occurrences of sleep paralysis.

I took a nonfiction narrative writing class when George was around 1 year old. The professor advised us students not to write about dreams. It was a bizarre instruction, since she assigned Terry Tempest Williams' Refuge as one of the course texts, a book that is filled with the author's dreams. The teacher said Terry is the exception, and for the most part, reading people's dreams is not interesting. Then she said, "Besides, who has dreams that are so vivid?"Me and a handful of other students raised our hands, and I had an aha moment. It hadn't occurred to me that some people go to bed, and just get a couple blips of their dreamtime escapades, and then wake up. I figured everyone got to ride the nighttime roller coaster I'd find myself on frequently.

Just last night I dreamed I was on a train, looking at a couple maps with various routes. Eventually, I was at a long dinner table with an underwater jungle in the backdrop. At one point a person from the table grabbed a giant snake from there, and as it was about to bite the mans head off, the man ripped out the snake's teeth, killing it and splaying blood all over the people at the table. The blood contained something like tiny razor blades because everyone started complaining about their mouths having tiny cuts in them.
I woke up to George shouting for me to walk him to the toilet and then back to bed. I laid with him till he fell back asleep, and at 2:30 in the morning, I was too tired to write the dream down, and needed to focus on getting back to sleep because who knows when the other kid will wake up shouting for my servitude.
One of my goals in 2017 is to keep a dream journal (err, not off to a good start). I feel like I better keep good documentation. It will be eye opening to come back and read the dreams after some time passes, since there is usually clarity looking back on things.  Another one of my 2017 resolutions is to let go of paranoia, which is especially hard after reading shark interpretations since "a shark indicates deception, do not trust anyone at this time," is a common theme.

I plan on getting to the bottom of this. It might not be pretty, but rather, oily with the Mugwort help. I'll let you know how the dreams turn out!

Light the Corners of My Mind

I heard a comedian once say, "Did you ever do something awkward, and then think about it for the next seven years?"
I laughed, and thought, "All the fucking time."
Today as I was cleaning up the kitchen, when I was sweeping, I remembered a couple years back going to a San Francisco Giants game with my family. George was two and Kiki four. For that particular game, all kids were given a wiffle ball set as a gift. Kiki and George, paraded around with their bats till we got to the bleachers, and we had to confiscate them because, being young children, they were oblivious to the cramp quarters, and swatting people surrounding us. George wouldn't just fucking let it go, and started to throw a terrible tantrum. We anxiously tried to distract him, but he tunnel visioned on the bat, and after I took it from him again, he hit me in the face. My reaction should have been to keep calm, but I hit him upside the head. Usually, I wouldn't think this is so awful, because he really can't act like such a brat, but what happened right after I hit him on the head is the worse part. The people behind us started cheering, and then I felt fucking terrible.
They were congratulating me for not being a parent-doormat, and taking charge of the situation, but George noticed the you-go-girl spectatorship, and he put his head in my neck and cried. I still pray there isn't some psyche damage from being publicly shamed for acting like an inconsolable two-year-old.
I picked him up, and we walked out of the bleachers and cruised around the park, but on my walk from our seat to the stairs, a woman with an infant in an ergo pouch glared at me like I punched my child in the eye, and I was privately shamed.
He was fine as we ventured thru AT&T Park. My number one goal when attending sporting events is to eat, so he was my comrade on the foodie exploration that included a Ghiradelli booth, we parked outside of most of the game.

The other day I  received my monthly newsletter from the physic healer I saw in October and she gave some mediation advice on how to feel cheerful in the post holiday slump. She said to think of a time where you were so completely happy. Focus on that moment, think of what it feels like to be so happy, how it made your body and mind feel. This practice helps stimulate dopamine in your mind.
I immediately thought of the day I went into labor with my daughter. It was a wonderful chance that my mom and little sister were in LA when I went into labor. After going to the doctor in the morning, I was told to go home until the labor intensified later in the afternoon. So we picked up philly cheesesteaks (of all things!) and went back to my house where I tried to take a nap but was so fucking excited, couldn't close my eyes for a second.
My mom came to town with The Kennedys Miniseries on DVD, and was hellbent on watching it that day. I tried to protest as much as I could, but I was also very much in my head, it was a surreal time, I knew I was about to give birth to my baby who I walked around with in my belly the last ten months, so I just hung out. My mom, is an extrovert trapped inside of an introvert, so to people who know her, she is the most wildly funny person. Jim Carey (on Oprah) said that he thinks all comedians get their gift from their mothers. Humor passes on through the mom, which makes sense since she is likely the one who is sitting down at the table with you breakfast, lunch and dinner, so her quirky weirdness becomes the normal.
My mom said something, I don't even remember what, but I started laughing so hard, my enormous eighty pound baby (she was actually only 9) started laughing too, and squished my bladder (yeah, that must have been why) and I laughed so hard I peed my pants. Then I ran to the bathroom, laughing harder because my gigantic pregnant self, was pissing on the floor from laughing so hard.

This week Mark Zuckerberg announced that he is not an atheist anymore. This revelation comes after the birth of his child, and Priscilla Chan and him pledging 99% of their Facebook shares to human advancement. I found this to be the most important news of the week. It makes me think how it's  probably much easier for women to feel connected to God through our suffering. We are born the second sex, and it's through this marginalization we understand suffering. The act of birthing a child demonstrates the heights of women's pain and divinity.
Then, through our children, we understand love. This is wide sweeping, there are probably people who feel this love earlier in their life, perhaps through romance or a soulmate, but if those opportunities don't happen, then through children we gain an understanding of love, and a deeper connection to God.

Love is birthed from a moment, but stays with us forever, through memories that fuel our heart throughout life, even after doing shitty stupid things, like hitting your kid upside the head in front of an audience. Tonight, I walked into the living room, and found George, standing ontop of the TV stand in his underwear, with his duck blanket draped over his head. As I lunged toward him shouting, "Get down from there, you could faaaaaaaaa...."
He bent his knees and jumped into the air, and then fell to the floor. He is just wild, and doesn't like to follow rules.
I bought him a new game for his LeapPad, and was working on my laptop next to him as he played it. I got distracted because I heard the game keep saying, "Thats incorrect. Select the number three."
And, still typing on my keyboard, I said to him, "You know what the number three looks like. Pick the number three." The game again said, "Sorry, that's incorrect. Pick the number three."
Then I looked over, and saw his face. He was absolutely giddy, red-faced and smiling, repeatedly selecting the wrong answer, on purpose. He threw his head back, laughing so hard he almost peed his pants.

Quit Being an LB

When Phyllis Nefler calls a parent meeting for Troop Beverly Hills to concoct a plan for selling cookies, her best friend, a glamorous romance novel writer, laments, "If all you're looking for is money, then why don't we all just buy a thousand boxes of cookies."
Phyllis says, she thought of that too, but realized it defeats the purpose, which is much more than raising money, but teaching your kids not be an LB.

Thats a term my brother taught me, "LB" which stands for "lil' bitch," and is generally used to explain someone who is acting like a whiney asshole, and is bringing everyone down. When I was young, my brothers, sisters and me would lounge in front of the TV for hours. We'd rise from our state of rest only for fresh-from-the-oven bagel bites. When my dad would come in the house after work, we'd all go tense because we knew he would never get on board with this scene of inactivity.

And he wouldn't. He'd usually look upon his fleet of lazy children, silently scowl, walk into the other room, and we would get the false impression that he is totally cool with us spending our Saturday on an eight hour TV bender. Minutes later, he'd walk in the room and command, "Turn the TV off. You need to move the wood from the front of the house to the side of the house."

Then we'd all moan under our breath, taking out our frustration on each other, with a shove and "get out of my way" shout, and then start a work line where we'd spend the next two hours walking chopped wood from the front of the house to the side of the house, for no reason except my dad doesn't want his kids to grow up and be LBs. Weeks later, he'd come home and ask us to move all the wood back to where it was stacked in the front of the house. And so on.

I'm with my parents this week, sleeping on a blow up mattress with my two kids. A fourth of the mattress' air escapes when I put the cap on it, and there is a slight leak somewhere because after a couple hours, we are all sleeping on the floor. George wakes up frequently throughout the night screaming for no apparent reason then to test my strength in containing any involuntary reaction to be abusive. I practice visualizing us back at home, where he is in his bed, and I am in mine, sleeping soundly. But waking up in the dry Carson City desert, after sleeping a couple hours on the floor of a room that's last seen a vacuum in 2012, my throat and nose clogged with dust bunnies, I guzzle eight cups of water and then onto coffee and take on a day which has become much less active now that my kids are old enough to keep themselves busy, running around like a pack of wolves with their four cousins.

Last Christmas there was always something to do; snacks to make, potty mess to clean up, something to organize, or a tantrum to extinguish. Yesterday I was so hapless, I spent eight hours laying around and eating. I went to bed traumatized by the dud of a day I had, and said, "Im going to read a book tomorrow. I can't go on doing nothing!"
Yesterday I took two long ass walks. The first was with my brother and sister's families. The second was an emergency walk, I initiated after watching George waywardly wander through the room, leaping on furniture, looking like he was going to climb the TV stand with the hope of body slamming the coffee table. I could have carried on, eating a dozen more mini powdered donuts while staring at the ceiling, but he needed to run.

As we started down the path I chatted with my sister on the phone. We hung up, and then George and I walked, looking for rabbits. When we reached the end of the path, I reached in my pocket for my phone so I could get a picture of him with the city background. I put my hand in the deep pocket and pulled out a knitted cap, two sets of gloves, three little kids socks, and Starbucks napkins, but no phone.
I knew I had the phone when we started on the walk, so it fell out somewhere in between here and where I hung up. I regretted buying the camouflage otter box case because it was only fourteen dollars on Amazon, knowing if it were case side up, it'd blend into the brush and dirt. I found the phone glistening in the dirt right around where I hung up. George and I high-fived, then I went to take his picture, but the phone died as I opened the camera.
We then came upon a family of deer. There was about eight of them, and they looked huge, motionless, staring at us. I picked up George, and was a little frightened, as we said, "Hi deeeer," creeping away. I couldn't shake the image of them walking towards us, then quickly charging, a short distance stampede. The path soon turned to cement, and we entered the neighborhood. I turned around and saw a little deer peek its head out from behind a stone wall to look at us.

This morning, after George woke me up, we joined the bustling part of our family thats on East Coast time, I grabbed a book from the shelf, The Epic of Gilgamesh. Harletts seem to be the most useful tool of the time, and proclaimed, "I will not eat any of those fucking corn syrup donuts, or guzzle diet coke like it's water." A couple hours later my mom came out of her room singing, and I reiterated how I couldn't be a glutinous couch dwelling jabba the hut sloth today. She shook her head at me, dismayed, and said, "You stop being a complainer, and lay down on that couch and relax."

I know what she meant by "complainer" so I sucked it up, grabbed some donuts and fell into an armchair, tossing the book to the side and started watching rain drops hit the window and ground.

5 days late

Will I ever stop crying

My period is five days late. I have pms symptoms and wasn't feeding into the possibility of pregnancy too much, so after I thought of the perfect baby name, and how we'd arrange the kids room, and how my car needs more space, I figured I'd pee on a stick. Then I could start in on the baby registry.

It came back negative which I knew deep down because I have that warm cramping feeling I get before I start. My period is just being a butt head because it wants me to carb load for all of 2017.

After work Tuesday I grocery shopped and had 10 minutes to kill before picking up the kids so I got a bagel and drove around eating it. Ten years ago I held a very firm stance that car-eating is barbaric, impatient, and terrible for digestion, but now I think of it as a mini vacation; quiet, peaceful and delicious times where I can be alone with my thoughts and food.

The night before last I felt like Rosemary's Baby's mama when I cooked up a pound of beef with an onion and began chowing down from the skillet with a 17 inch plastic mixing spoon. Standing over the stove with food dripping from my mouth, I felt like a famished cave woman who just happened upon a dead possum, and the thought entered my mind, perhaps this is more than PMS, and I am with cave child.

If there was ever a movie to avoid in the height of PMS I watched it last night. I had to practice seat clenching self control in the theater watching Manchester By the Sea, and as I went thru ten Starbucks napkins I found in my jacket pocket, wiping snot and tears from my face, I had to swallow a tennis ball of cement in my throat so I wouldn't start wailing in my fit of hysterics. If I knew what the movie was about, I wouldn't have watched it.

Around 3 am I woke up to the gate outside my bedroom being blown open and then crashing into the latch but not catching. It went on for a while, and let me sit and think about The Saddest Movie Ever Made. I found myself crying in bed, at 3am, from this movie. Can I say I was traumatized? I think the only way to treat my condition is by sad-eating a meatball sub.

Sitting in bed and crying about a movie at 3am made me disoriented this morning when I woke. I told my husband, "Kiki has to sleep in, she has her dance recital tonight and needs to be on top of her game."
He said, "It's 7:30," like it was noon, and I rolled over. Then he said, "Don't you have a final this morning?"
I flipped the comforter off me, threw on my clothes, and whisper-yelled, "Goodbye," so I wouldn't wake up my daughter as I ran out of the house.
Now I'm, sitting in front of my class, as they take the final exam I nearly slept through, and started my period without any of my period gear. My morning is is a walk in the park compared to Manchester By The Sea.

Although Manchester By The Sea had a significant impact on me, and can win all the best actor/actress awards, I hope Hell Or High Water wins best movie. That was a fucking great movie. Sing Street is my favorite movie of 2016, but like how The Namesake was robbed in 2007 (Never Forget) I think Sing Street won't get it's due recognition by the Academy (I'm saying that last part in a drawn out nasally voice, The Acaaademy.)

After this test, I'm going to pick up meatball subs, and watch Sing Street.  Then hug my kids for, oh, I don't know, maybe the next 17 hours.

The Price Im Willing To Pay For A Remodel

I’m planning a remodel on the kitchen. Presently, it is a small galley kitchen, and we’d like to extend it on one side, and blow out the wall blocking it from the living room. A construction/design team came over to the house; we discussed what we want and what we're able to spend.

This last part, although it was a five minute discussion, left no impression on them as they left to draw up the plans because when we got the budget last night, it's almost 50% greater than what we initially told them. I’m planning to take this estimate, give it to my kids to practice their safety scissors, then sweep it into a bucket, pee on it, and leave it outside for the skunks to have a confetti party with.

All I could say was, “You got to be fucking kidding me!” Two times during our meeting with them, they made my skin crawl, so perhaps I manifested this overblown estimate from the get-go, with my negative perception. Firstly, when they came over to talk about the plan, and we mentioned the budget, they said, “We have a guy…” (anyone who starts a sentence this way is trying to run a job on you) then followed it up with, “Who offers same-as-cash loans.”

I said, “Bitch, get out of my house. I thought I hired a fucking contractor not a loan shark.” Nah, I didn’t really say this, I just gave a patronizing smile and rolled my eyes because I put too much passive in my aggression. The designer brought this guy up again during our plan review, and brought up another payment plan option for purchasing appliances through a showroom they know of.

After hearing this second attempt at having us go further in debt, I wish I would have stood up, taken this lady by the shoulders, and started shaking her while shouting into her face, to make it perfectly clear, “I am not taking out more loans and payment plans to pay for this shit. It’s cash, or nothing. Strapping more debt onto my belt is the last thing I want, in fact the absence of more debt trumps having a better kitchen.”

I get it that everyone is trying to make dat money, but whats the point in discussing budget if its not taken into consideration, whatsoever. Then something happened that really infuriated me, the contractor, after my husband told him this is way too much for us to spend, he said, “Let me take a look at it again, and see what I can do.”

That reply, that fucking reply, has led me to say, “He’s dead to me!”

Why did he send over an estimate that can be shrunk down? I don’t like the way he’s conducting business, it should be the fairest price from the beginning, no fat to be trimmed from inflated costs because the customers using a same-as-cash loan (what the fuck does that even mean?)

It reminds me of when I called Comcast to cancel my service because I was paying close to a car payment for cable and internet. I spoke with the representative, and he said, “How about you keep your plan, and I’ll make it a hundred dollars cheaper?”

I was shocked; “How about you back pay me then the $100 a month I’ve paid you for the last year too.” It shouldn’t be legal that some people pay $80 for the same service another person is paying $200 for. If price were based individually on how much the customer is willing to spend, then I’d rather not do business with you.

Our kitchen is not is bad shape, its just small and secluded. I’m still happy, its not like we aren’t eating. The kitchen functions fine. We can take our home improvement money, and use it in other ways, like put in a swimming pool to help us through the agony of Sacramento Summer, or pave our driveway that is 1/3 dirt, or buy a new sofa since ours has surely soaked up a gallon of milk by now, or paint the walls that are tagged up with crayon and grubby hand prints.

Before I paint the walls, the kids better make me the craft project with their handprints, and the poem about how those dirty handprints on the walls are just temporary. It goes something like this: 

Yo Ma, don’t get your panties in a bunch 

This hand print is from my peanut butter lunch

One day I’ll be a grown up too

You’ll stare at this print and think of your boo

My house is relatively small square footage. I think this is a plus because it means less shit to clean, and the kids are always within hearing range. But thinking of return on investment, it would actually be ridiculously stupid to spend that kind of money on a kitchen remodel in a house our size. I am certain the contractor is aware of this fact, which is especially annoying. The value of our house currently and the value of our house after remodeling should be directly related.

You know the real estate motto, “You always get back money you put into your kitchen and bathrooms.” Well, that wouldn’t be the case if we put 40K into our kitchen. Based on square footage, we wouldn’t be able to sell our house for it’s current value plus 40K. I’m sure there is some real estate or house flipping terminology for that, but I’m just going to call it common sense.

I'm fired up, but it will burn out soon. If the estimate comes back and is still asinine, I can cool my jets by thinking of that new pool I'll be jumping in too.

Hairy Loafer

Im faking asleep for the sleeping-selfie effect

Thanksgiving is a holiday where it’s easy to realize how thankful I am for my wonderfully cozy little house because I spend three to four days sleeping at someone else’s.

At 6:45  on Thanksgiving I headed upstairs to our guest room, and put George to bed. Even though he cried and said he needed to go back downstairs, he was snoring by 7. Then I had to bring in my daughter and get her to sleep. While reading to her, I dozed off.

I drank a latte at 3, so when my eyes cracked open at 9, I felt spry. I wiggled free from in between the kids, and browsed a bookshelf. I found a little book called “The Big Secret For The Small Investor” and I thought, this is perfect, I’ve wanted to learn how to play the stock market. I read the first two chapters, and then started having wildly entertaining daydreams that pulled me completely from the text. 

I became ecstatic at the prospect of becoming a successful investor and my future wealth.  My mornings would be dedicated to reading financial Times, drinking coffee and making notes on all my daily stock trades. I would get really fucking rich, like one-eyed Christian Bale in The Big Short.

I wouldn’t be overly flashy, initially. But after a while, there’d be no reason to hold back, and I’d buy everyone those ridiculous hairy Gucci loafers for Christmas. 

They’d all look at the stupid shoes, angrily thinking how much they'd rather have the cash. Then I’d shout surprise! and give everyone a fat check and an accompanying hairy loafer gift receipt. They’d forgive me for the lavish waste of money, and we’d drink Coors light.

hairy loafers cost $1,800 (stupid AF)

I was reading about calculating Present Value, and drifted into another daydream where I’m working at a glass desk with three computers. I’m wearing a silk robe with fur trim, thick rimmed glasses, as well as a phone headset. As I’m reading the screens, drinking coffee and flicking a ten inch cigarette into a massive jade ash tray, I’m chatting on the phone, “Alright, bitch, I got to get back to it. Time is money, gotta spend money to make money, buy low and sell high. Give my love to the mister,” Then I look at a computer screen and watch my bank balance increasing faster than a rocket ship speedometer.

Soon after, I realized this book was boring me, and the idea of being a wildly successful stock trader seems way more interesting then the process of becoming a wildly successful stock trader.

I returned the book to the shelf, and picked up Kathy Griffin's Official Book Club Selection. It is hilarious, no day dreaming needed. I was trying not to laugh out loud and wake up the kids, or at least not laugh louder than Kiki's snore-purr, but that made me bottle up the laughter, causing my body to convulse, simulating a tiny earth quake on the pillowy bed, and shaking the kids. 

Kathy was a later-in-life slut, and her stories about fucking random dudes were hilarious. I only made it to chapter 5 when I passed out, but I couldn't help being intrigued after she talked about housewives being the majority in her Santa Monica Community College acting classes.

The next day when I started looking at class schedules, I had to give myself a slap on the face, Alicia, focus on one flower at a time, fool, or you'll never get your garden to grow.

I'm back to Sacramento, and my razor. Another thing I need to be thankful for, and should never forget to take on vacation. I wouldn't make it another day without needing to find myself a cave to hibernate in. Now I know, five days makes linoleum go to shag.

Whenever I return home from being out of town, I hit the ground running with a fresh perspective and pent up motivation. We put out all the Christmas decorations, started laundry from the trip, set up my teaching lessons for Tuesday, and am planning a writing schedule for the week. 

There is one thing I haven't  managed to get to. No one is calling me a loafer, but they certainly can call me hairy. One flower at a time, here!

Come Again

I asked Kiki what she wants for Christmas, and I shit you not, she said, "Minnie doesn't just share her bows, she wears her bows, a proud sponsor of Disney Jr."
I replied, "Well, you need to get more creative! Or at least a bit more specific."

Last year we bought her a plastic monstrosity advertised on Disney Jr. She still plays with it, but it satisfies the Minnie Mouse quota of household toys, and we don't need another toy in the house reminding us of Garbage Island.

I'm buying a new Play Doh press. The old one broke from making Play Doh pasta hours a day. It's been a nice reprieve; I'm able to sit at the table, drink coffee and talk, without being ordered in a bratty Disney Princess tone, to squish out a fresh batch of pasta. I had to put a kibosh on the Disney Jr because it makes my daughter act like an abusive megalomaniac. All those Princesses and their lack of consideration for anything but a chipped fingernail corrodes her mind.

We also watch the Pixar Movie, Inside Out. There is a funny bit where two characters sing the-song-from-the-gum-commercial, that goes like this, "Triple mint gum will make you survive." But when Kiki sings it, it sounds like this, "Triple mint cum will make you survive." I have corrected her enough where the problem should be fixed. "No, girl, It's G-U-M, Gah, Gah" Then she asked if my grandpa didnt eat his Triple Mint Gum.
After looking up the song online, the to actual lyrics, "Triple Dent gum will make you SMILE."

Lately the things I hear on TV don't match their intention, and thats even if I'm hearing it right. Like the news. I sat on the couch on election night and thought, they are really hamming this up. I said to my husband, "I wish they'd fast forward the two hours and stop dragging out this charade, so we can just call Hillary the winner and get to bed."
He looked at me over his laptop, "I don't think you're understanding. Trump is winning."

After a while it started settling in. I read a report, in the aftermath, saying Hillary was yelling and throwing things as she became aware of this unfathomable defeat by The Great Orange Hype. I was too much in shock to yell or throw things, and sat there, laughing like my straight jacket was being cinched one notch tighter.

The beautiful news anchors on NBC all pooped in their pants as they tried to make heads-or-tails of their inability to capture the pulse of the US. One anchor said, she regretted calling Trump supporters "The deplorables" and the others confirmed there must have been some error in their polling methods.

Clearly, the mainstream media has no idea what is going on in this country, or they don't care. They are having too good a time pleasuring each other in a verbal cirle-jerk. There is this leftist notion that cops should have to go to college because, they think strapping someone with 100K in debt will lead them to making better decisions under pressure. But maybe the opposite should be done with journalists in this country. Journalists, who go from college to grad school, to UNPAID internships, should live awhile as working class.
Journalism is a profession only the wealthy can enter. Entering the field requires working unpaid in places like NYC, an impossibility for anyone whose parents aren't bankrolling them. These people, with their soft paws, paint the picture of how things are in this country, and they do a piss-poor job of it.

I was hoping an apology video would be made where we get to watch a panel of NBC news anchors chowing down on their soiled diapers from election night, but I haven't seen any of that. I have seen them discussing fake news sources from Kazakhstan or some shit, and how all people who didn't vote in protest of Bernie are responsible for Trump. Again, they're not realizing, this is exactly what they wanted, because they were anti-Hillary. The news is calling this sect of the rust belt "uneducated" which is their transparent synonym for "stupid." I don't think the news has quite learned it's lesson. For every word they utter, they should be listening to five more. By blanketing the rust belt as stupid, they're, once again, failing to gather insight into this population.

Right now, mainstream news are basically pissing gasoline on a fire since portraying this group accurately is not as exciting, or clickable, as having KKK as a headline (and fuck yes, I think people need to protest against KKK, racism, sexism and fascism.)

But prioritizing sensationalism, comes from a place of entitlement because they're not living in these communities that are impacted. From their cozy leather swivel chairs, they proclaim, it's an abomination, let the people rise up. So they play footage to unsettle the nation, but not a single fleck of riot-ash blows into their insulated neighborhoods. For example, google Standing Rock or North Dakota Pipeline, you won't get a CNN, NBC, Huff Post article till you're five pages in, so they're intentionally ignoring the issues of Native Americans because it won't get the endearing response of a Dear Dad letter from a girl who wants to stop her dad from voting Trump. It's like they can't stop pandering to themselves, Narcissus gazing in the pool.

When I was at the gym the other day, an ad for Brian Butt-Brains Williams came on. I thought, Wow these fucking networks really have their priorities straight. They let down an entire country with their shitty election coverage, and then make drama-school drop out Brian Williams the lead anchor of a nightly news program. Drama-school drop out, go back on suspension, no one wants to see you're lying ass.

Until the mainstream news decides to produce progressive, constructive and an accurate depiction of the US, all people who turn to them as a resource are being misled.
Just like how we get to point our fingers and laugh our asses off at Barns And Nobles, and eventually all other big-box stores, as they go bankrupt because Amazon is putting them out of business the same way they killed all small businesses in the nineties, we will be equally unsympathetic when network news close their doors because people look elsewhere for reliable coverage.
I don't think the delusional main stream news is penetrable. They'll be turing off the last light in the building, dismayed by the "uneducated" working class who weren't able to open their minds enough to indulge in the perspective of an upper class white liberal.

I can't even take solace in their impending demise, since their blues will be short lived as they speed dial their brethren for another leisure career. None of this changes the fact that Clinton lost, and that is the hardest pill for me to swallow. Maybe I'm projecting my frustration towards the narrow minded media. Im not buying into the Great Orange Hype, and I'm certainly not forgetting all the stupid shit he said.

Hillary had a fireworks display planned for her acceptance speech to symbolize busting through the glass ceiling. I had a great tweet planned too. I was going to write, "Now we can put all this pussy grabbing behind us, and hopefully never mention it again." I was skeptical of the timing of the Access Hollywood video, and thought it was part of an antifeminist conspiracy woven into Hillary Clinton winning the election. Whoever thought holding on to that video till last minute was a good idea should be forced to eat one of those poopy diapers too.

I've heard a gratuitous cry for Michelle Obama to one day run for president. To which I shake my head, of course. Listen up, you're compliment is backhanded. A woman can, and will become president, and she doesn't need teed to be the leftovers of her husband. We'll do this again, and she will win.

She should start advertising now, on Disney jr. The brand loyalty will clench the election, even after proclaiming she can grab anyone by the pussy, or dick, if thats her thing.