The Process

We don’t know anything much no not so much at all

None of us ever

Even knows what we

Think I

 

Have come to know, which

To be exactly unhypocritical

Would be more of an, “I

Have come to suspect,”

 

Knowing is hard so

Very hard I

Heard

 

A girl go on a passionate

Rant at the bar and

She knew all she

Said but from a fact

Standpoint, she was wrong

So maybe not knowing as

I suspected she did not

Know.  The thing

 

About now is Trump

Which makes me consider

America is not was not

Ever the good place like

What dream yes there

Were are some good things

But to reminisce on teachings

 

I would argue American history

As well as many lessons

Taught to young American students

Are not truths or facts as much

As perceptions handed down

Through the most widely prescribed

culture/ dominance/ situation.

 

The word propaganda is one

I enjoy using to describe

Most things that seem subjective,

Even slightly, like old cooking

Principles not rooted

In science or our

Landlord’s promise of laundry in the

Building but I digress

 

I have come to think of

Thinking and the questions are so mean

And arbitrary but loud, have credence.

 

Like is it important

To rise in power and financial freedom before

Expressing generosity to those who have nothing

 

What is a citizen and why are they so popular

 

Why is seventy percent of the week

Supposed to be work

 

How can there be hell for the

Love people at all

 

Who the fuck is Jesus Christ and

Would society be about as

Fucked if a group of babies

Survived an apocalypse and found the

Harry Potter series and adopted it as

Their bible but only some

Of the babies found the later books

With Sirius Black involved or whatever the

Appropriate analogy is

 

Is it hard to make your baby a good person

 

Why is every debate about a

Them

 

How can I write or talk

When it’s all questions and no

Beliefs or why is it

Squirming to express the

Simple values I do have to people

Who say that they know but who

Don’t

 

I would say the one knowance I

Have approached is that bad is from

Fear; no confident and capable person

Ever is bad, no not truly, no they are not I

Seem to notice and approach knowing that

thing.

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Welweteen Anchor

I came to a definition

Of euphoria yesterday

In a momentary lightness

In my back

 

I knew

 

I carry all questions

In a cavity in

There

 

Sometimes

 

The cavity empties

 

That levity:

 

A body’s mass

Is supposed to be weighted

Flesh, bones, organs, the like.

 

Yet this

Estimated thing I

Have come to know–cavity

 

Going from dense

Clay to warm

Void in a moment

 

Gravity is acting

On it not

Known mass

 

In an instance of

Drinks in an instance

Of sex or

Being perceived as making

Sense or held or

Escaping, bending

Id-ward or helping or knowing

Truth I

 

Could drift up and fuck

Off from the prison of my

Ponderings, prostrate analogies

I could know

 

By any sense sensing what occurred

Near my body and not

 

Not know it

As I so normally don’t

 

As I’m engaged in

Parlance with a loam

Thick with askings and

Riddles regarding fairness,

Ethics, and imaginings

 

And I like it yet

The loam is

Connected to my skull and

Nourishes it the same

Way welwet does a buck’s

Antlers,

 

Causes him to become

Hewn or pointy or instinctive, able

In his maturity or

Wholly stagnant, stale, or irrelevant,

 

Waste of existence,

Miss the point?

Another Day

The toilet was running the toilet the toilet was was running,
running there’s a pool of shit water in the toilet brush holder
in a well-ish kept public bathroom there is a pool of shit water shit shit
water.  The two feelings are annoyed and nothing and intermittent
intermittent, fairly intermittent crying regardless of either two and a half sentiments |sashimi
has made me consider presentness due to its honesty|  the best the best the best

of the policies is is sashimi sashimi is the best policy.  Staling is the need for
speed staling thighs and lungs I am pond-like or rotten in my stagnancy in my
stagnancy I consider cutting my hair off or leg or finger off off off any choice is productive

if motherfucking productivity is producing an effect an effect instead of an outcome of course of course of course horse norse viking pelt the presidency if that if that if that is what we are calling it it it baruch hashem ass man frito pie poured into black-polished tasseled loafers

the boy has the boy has boy has left the man the guy has left he is i am the frosted windshield and the bugs the bugs on the outside are the bugs are also us and you | the two metaphors are rarely able to occur simultaneously; they are more here for seasonal options which illustrate an obstructed view and a constant bashing and a gnashing of bumper against what at once is was a 3D being and is was a 2D was-ing| in any in any at all of the cases the car the car is in motion the car is in motion away and the innards and outards are not are not succeeding not so well not so well, in fact they are hollowly raining of the eyes

The sashimi was cut shittily by a shitty person and served by a shitty nihilist and eaten by a shit and turned into shit and pooled into a toilet brush holder and no one was any the wiser or everyone knew and didn’t care and did but didn’t care and or everyone knew and cared and hated each other and money and fish and appetites were lost and a family of fish worms died a mournful and needless death or they didn’t care and preferred to end it all because The Leagues Below are Teeming With Russian Spies and they can trust no one but don’t care as the only fathomable existence fathoms below is one of {kremlin or gremlin or cruller or worm} survival which was ruled out by such worms &/ they fathomed something fabled and aspired to return as some behemoth whale and and and and whatever the mentality, they perished, and who is to say whether it was a shame, in vain or and and fucked.  Sillily

weighing the thinness of the line between orderly and anal retentive, the human considered the likelihood of achieving either and subsequently aimed for both while plainly aware of its inability to avoid the quick brown fox Wearing Bathing Suits at Work jumped over the lazy dog on Laundry Day |It had it had been certainly been decided that one would not definitely not enjoy its mead and also achieve anal reten-tion/-tiveness or avoid sticky licks of chicken skins and the scenario’s subsequent sucks of sticky digits | trunks, picture, obviously, +/-  what the fuck bikini fox, salted/burned nipple?

 

Spinal Knob

A knob in my spine is what’s new and exciting these days.  I can’t imagine what’s really there, although I’ve come to regard it as a small, fist-sized armadillo that is somewhat geometric and less round, mildly pangolin-esque.  I imagine some sort of delivery of it by a suited and gloved and anonymous doctor with glasses and in the thought the delivery is excellent, feels whole, and renders my body younger.  The procedure would be simple: the doctor would incise, and the item or person or mammal or coins would immediately just emerge, and the doctor would present it to me and say, ‘there it is!’  And I would take it with me.  And I would consider it somewhat magical for having embedded itself to the left of my spine, behind my heart, inside my wing, only to become a suspicion.  I would regard the scar as a rite of passage.  I would change my ways and evolve even if the only thing that surfaced was a set of Russian nesting dolls; I would endeavor to be pleased with my days and contribute to the community.  Ambition would be ill suited to me; having the knob come forth would leave me in a place of contentment, and that would be ideal.  Or the mammal, if it was, would become a harbinger of health in the neighborhood or whatever community I might have to inhabit that best suited my new character.  People would knock on or pat at my door and wish to spend a moment with it; I would let them and pour them a cup of soup and it would sadly be packaged and the bottom would unfortunately be thick with sediment reminiscent of a pond’s scum and have dark leaves in the sludge, and it might put people off, but they would not be rude about it, because they would accept it as a sign of good faith and I would know they thought no less of me and didn’t consider it a weakness of someone aging on this sad earth.  They would even keep packets of the soup in their cupboards to best keep a connection with my mammal or creature of my spine just because it tended to exude health in our wake.  It would never be about me–I wouldn’t let it be; after all, I hadn’t done anything other than become a host to this random (technically) parasite.  But to be associated with it would allow me a certain calmness and relax my incessant feeling of unworthiness and failure and would dissolve the angry techtonic collision within which is desperation to manufacture butting with ennui which is another way to crystallize such knobs in one’s spine.  Some volcanic mutant to spend time with and face and say, ‘you are out now, let’s have peace, let them come to us and see us cleaved, as they may desire to be as well.’

Banana Pudding Tequila God and Heaven

Any responsibility I have to a self is shredded wheat cake and disassembles in the presence of most liquids: most think of milk but anything//
salacious bodies lie on the gum-tarred sidewalk and flap fish-like in search of
orgasm, a veil dropped behind the eyes rather than lids

maintains decorum within, without is dissolved and on display for passersby
who wouldn’t bother anyway–the body could be a corpse or a tree or a box.  Doesn’t
matter.  The sticky sweatpants will affect almost nothing.  My pillow talk

is of being dead in the ground without the interest for something more.  The third rub
on the lamp evoked a thick smoke that dried the wheat, almost set fire to it: a body that said euthanasia should be available on grocery store shelves.  What if your child…

“yes, it’s sad.”  Community of frigid underlings?  Underlying?  Outlier?  Interred?  Flung out or even strung out in the cosmos, one toe in Earth’s atmosphere, dipping it, buying milk and naked?  Seven layer dip served out of a guy’s head while he sits on the cement,

loafers and shorts, maybe lost a job or found Valhalla in a urinal: many will win, few will enter?  I am reduced to the powder at the bottom of the bag but consider that a step

toward firmness and the construction of sap to amber, while I trap you transparent, beetle, we might’ve been syrup but now head toward jewelry, ornament exhibition tomb.  From what I understand, the choice of death quick and cozy could be taxed.

In Loving Memory of my Bowl Cut

When I try to explain myself, I remember being a child, watching the hips of teenagers spilling over their pants on Rehoboth Beach, wanting them for myself and also for myself. To figure out which, I don’t know how: this was before I learned to hate this body and when I didn’t know it wouldn’t grow to be a man. The gentle hanging of fat from down the back of a thigh: it was ideal? Inhabiting myself is a dream in which I’m on and off lucid, committed and then quickly realizing this couldn’t be true, wouldn’t.

Kitchen Trails and Industry Fails

 

When looking for work, restaurant employees, especially cooks and chefs, are normally expected to trail in the restaurant for a day to see the inner workings of the place and to give the employer an idea of their work habits and skills.  Trails are a simultaneously smart and tragically stupid way to interview candidates for a job.  For a first job, a trail makes sense in the same way the SAT is used to measure learning aptitude.

Does the person take naturally to the work or stand there like an awkward scarecrow?  If they are enrolled in or have graduated from a culinary school, do they have anything to show for it, or are they dumb as rocks and have no idea how using a knife in school translates to using one in real life?  Do they know how to use salt to their advantage, or do they not even realize its importance in cooking?  To verify a new cook’s capability, a trail makes total sense.  For those more experienced, however, a trail can be an awkward, backwards, aggravating, and/ or laughable experience.  For someone with a proven record of experience, in my opinion, a general trail is a waste of time when an interview and tasting or cooking practical would be more than sufficient.

Beginning the search for a job with a trail often has the “starting from scratch” feeling.  None of the cooks are usually informed about the qualifications of the candidate and sometimes don’t know what position he or she is trailing for.  In some cases, that’s because it’s for one of the jobs held by the cooks or chefs present.  Often, the chef who beholds the information about the candidate is too busy and/or too introverted and/or too socially anxious and/or too hungover and/or has forgotten they scheduled a trail today and/or pretty much anything to brief the staff on the person’s background or goals.  And, so, The Trail (as the staff commonly refers to this human who has already introduced their actual name–something I’ve been both guilty and victim of) is guilty of idiocy and ineptitude until proven innocent.  And so often, the real trial–line cooking– doesn’t start until after a couple hours of prep work patronization.

In general, you can’t blame the staff for over-explaining the steps of work to The Trail.  After all, this alien in the kitchen is going to be responsible for some of the food preparation for the restaurant, and it has to be right to serve.  To best prevent any mass destruction, that means that usually the cooks will either play hot potato with The Trail and try not to let it help them by saying things like, “I’m good, do you need it?”  I’ve had the distinct honor of being on a trail the same day as someone looking for a culinary school internship and being pawned off to another cook as in, “Are you using both of them right now, or can I have one?

“No, do you need one of them?”  No names, of course.  The minute things get named, relationships get complicated, after all.

Otherwise, the cooks will give the trail the golden opportunity to chop herbs or go gather all the shit they keep forgetting in their ADHD cooking brains: “Here’s a list of all the things I still need for service, which started five minutes ago.  Can you grab them?”  And so, after a couple hours, the only discernible qualities this human has is whether they can not cut themselves with their own knife on the first task and whether they are able bodied enough to see shit and carry it in their hands.  Having been in the position of both cook and chef administering many trails, I have seen plenty of dumb or green potentials that make a solid argument for the way trails are conducted currently: they cannot be trusted with anything more than the bare minimum.

I’ve seen a guy cook meat on a grill for kebabs and put it on a stick after it was cooked!  I’ve seen a girl label a container of zested citrus as “juice meat” instead of “juice me.”  I’ve had to tell a guy that salads should be dressed with salt, acid, and oil as opposed to just black pepper and oil.  I’ve had a girl triumphantly spilling over with excitement that she knew about the word umami.  That same girl slapped my ass when she left her trail even though I was the one who was deciding whether or not to hire her.  I’ve seen a man go into the bathroom with gloves on and come out wearing them.  For these people, a trail is a kind buffer between them, the potential employer, and their respective and mutual fates.

For people that have years of experience in cooking, though, the time spent dicking around and standing there with a thumb up their asses while waiting for direction (or even watching the cook who owns them for the day do a terrible job and refuse help or advice) is not the most productive way to convince the chef or coworkers of their ability.  It’s quite like if instead of taking the SAT to get into college, you had to take a basic addition test where the first section was finding pencils and proving that you knew how to count to ten and no one was really sure if you’d ever made it past the first grade anyway.

Lately, in my own hunt for a job, I’ve been subject to some interesting moments in kitchens around the city.  Being young hasn’t done me any good in commanding immediate credence in each new kitchen team.  Looking even younger than I am has done me less good.  And say what you will about it, being a female has probably done me even less good.  I get it.  I look more or less like a cherub out of a Michelangelo swathed in chef garb.  My looks don’t give off the same aura of strength and badassery as that possessed by tall, lanky men covered in tattoos, often ones who have chosen to grow a beard to suggest wisdom.  And no matter the growing quantity of damn amazing female chefs out there, the industry is still dude obsessed.

I’m small.  I can’t grow a beard at all.  Automatically, nothing much is expected of me, especially physically, and I’m not established enough in the industry to have a reputation that precedes me.  Staying at the same acclaimed restaurant and climbing through the ranks is a good answer for that, but I don’t like staying somewhere for four years.  So I go back into the culinary playpen every so often.  Here is a list of some times I had to reach deep inside myself and not let myself stick my hand in a flame or chop off a digit to get out of the trail or even first days of a new job early:

  1. When I dropped a microplane on the floor and a cook told me I had to wash it before using it again
  2. The time no one, not even the chef on duty, was informed that I was trailing for a sous chef position and I was therefore lumped in with the culinary school extern hopefuls.  The cook in charge of The Trails was new to cooking and taught us very badly how to make a beurre blanc sauce, wasting expensive cheesecloth as she made her bouquet and including her own variations that she followed based allegedly on her mood any  given day (something very scary to hear from a line level employee charged only with keeping up the consistency of the chef’s recipes).  Luckily, this was also the time I got pawned off on another cook
    1. The time that same girl told me it was best to put hot used pots and pans in a separate bus tub from dirty plastic containers.  Mind blown.
    2. When the other cook I was pawned off on asked me if this was my first restaurant but then said he could tell it wasn’t because I did a good job of slicing bread.
    3. When one cook told the other not to throw away extra jus, because it’s expensive, and she replied, “we don’t buy the jus; we make it in house!”
    4. At the end of the night when the chef on duty, after paying me no attention during my trail, asked me if I was still in culinary school and whether I was looking for a cooking job there
  3. The time a cook on the meat roast station at a well known restaurant told me that he only put the garlic and thyme in the roasted mushrooms when he had time.  He wasn’t busy all night and only did it right on one pick up.  Another very worrisome moment for consistency in New York City
  4. The time a sous chef, whose job I was previously offered, told me that leaving a sauce on a burner without stirring it would result in scorching
    1. When that same sous burnt a batch of crackers and threw them all away except for the amount needed for the night’s service instead of making new ones in the ample time left in the day.
  5. The time a cook asked me if I had heated up the sauce I was spooning over a hot fish entree

It takes a lot of effort on the chef’s end of things to coordinate trails and find suitable employees; the kitchen is such a rotating door of staff members, and a lot of times, potential candidates have a lot of trails lined up and will of course only be choosing one place.  So it does seem a little bit to ask of chefs to plan better for trails or interviews with people who are barely invested in taking the job as much as they are just curious about behind the scenes and tasting some fancy food for free.  However, it seems to me that with a little extra research into the candidate (calling their references, etc.,) and some kind of premeditated cooking practical, a chef would be able to make a much better informed decision about a new hire and waste less of the The Trail’s time and anguish as they do pairing them with some half baked newbie line cook for Picking Parsley and Getting Salt and Squeeze Bottles of Oil and Water.

 

 

The Usual Crises and Boring Shit

In a room of talking bodies–I am one of them–I’m looking at the
rest, each glance sounding off a little wish in my head.  I wish I were…
that lazy looking, low-belted bro, the girl that subsists on just coke, the now-long-sober dude, the girl in the either ironic or stupid-sincere t-shirt: I wish I were anyone.  Even as I’ve come to suspect A Body Can Only Know Anyone Besides Itself, I’m bound by the perception that everyone here defies that notion, wrapped up in their enigmatic but clear designs, and the bindings tighten around my regret for my choice of pants.  If I could tell anyone about myself beyond the basic physical and occupational facts, I could hardly think of anything more than a list of things I am not.  And because people these days have eyes, half my potential parlor conversation is obsolete.  I Am A Cooking Person rarely makes the cut unless you’re talking to someone incredibly narcissistic.  Where do you work?  What kind of food do you cook?  What’s your specialty (the worst question)?  It is difficult to steer a conversation less than by saying “I don’t currently work, the only major cuisines I don’t cook much at all are Japanese and Ethiopian, and I don’t really have a specialty unless fried bologna sandwiches counts.”  Out of context, I guess I sound like a real winner.  But context is just that, and long ago I lost a spark for the type of varied inflection that captures an audience as well as anything to say that might call for such melody.  A joke on myself, I might make, and then make a joke on that one.  Something like, A Real Winner I Am, See?  And then something like, Well, What, Haven’t You Ever Had A Fried Bologna, Jim?, Tough Crowd, Jesus.  And just flat like that, unyielding, boring music.  Like a song you turn off when something fun comes on TV.  It’s the sound in my head, too: when I see, read, hear such things…flat footnotes loom up in each pause in whatever medium, mad at the similes I used to like, bored at almost any poetics, mostly Romantics, like “Oh, but was it as vague as etchings on glass (one I understood and nearly liked–sorry Patti Smith, who I adore–I also mocked)?”  It happens with most work: by writers, chefs, artists, politicians– I gnaw it all away and rarely find a strong bone beneath all the rotting flesh attached: their respective masturbatory description (somehow always full-hearted and VERDANT), cabbage shoulders and onion crumbles, obtuse color blocks, jargon and lies–and I make myself out of what I won’t be compared to what exists, and I don’t have attributes but I can sure say what qualities cancel out those in anyone else right back down to rot.  But often there are bones enough to hold them together, and that point thinks at/on/in me enough to want some flesh on mine.  Sardonic skeleton, depart.  Let me codify as and name myself as anything, maybe a series of 1’s and 0’s rather than “not 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, or 9,” maybe a seer of true flesh over an exposer of the rotten.

Boring Ways to Say What I Feel Amidst the Better Written Articles Being Published These Days Sponsored by the Fact that I Almost Cried About Four Times at Work Today but Didn’t Because I am a Strong Man Lady but Mostly Because I Feared Overseasoning the Food

  1.  I am profoundly sad.
  2. I don’t know that much about political history, but when was the last time an election left masses crying for days or weeks straight.  First at the outcome.  Then at the fear for the future digression.  Then at feeling of soft spot in heart when a stranger smiles knowingly.  A grieving process is talked about.  But this is not.  Void of acceptance at the sight of all of us.  A grieving is for a forever loss.  This is a pain from an abuse.
  3. I am not ashamed to be white, and I am tired and sad of hearing people say they are.  This is Regarding Race, all this being [The United States Presidency, as it devolves].  This is also regarding gender.  Sexuality.  Religion.  If you must be ashamed, be ashamed of everyone else who voted Trump, but be not ashamed of your skin color.  Or gender.  It’s as though Being Alive has become some sort of thing requiring a background in High Math.  There are still allowed to be white, straight, cis-gendered men and women.  We’re still allowed to like them.  Everyone on our side is necessary.

    See, I’ve had problems understanding things in the event of disaster.  A great example is the tragedy down in Orlando.  After the fallout of the shooting, and after the fallout of so many hate crimes this year, the affected group is riled up against “others” sharing their pain or joining in the grieving process.  In that case, specifically, many gays were offended to see straight/not targeted citizens of Orlando mark themselves as safe on Facebook.  Later on, I read a post by someone livid that a straight person was trying to apply for funding to create an artistic memorial for the victims.   Well, I for one was glad that my family in Florida was safe.  And what’s the real issue with someone outside the targeted group commemorating the victims?  What we are afraid of is someone outside of a targeted group to commandeer the oppression as their own.  We are concerned that people will disrespect and misrepresent our hurt.  But pushing away those who support us most and who are doing their best to fight by our side–our friends and allies–is counterproductive.  Divides us further.

    And now.  People are scared that black, Asian, Mexican, Middle eastern, etc. etc., people will be disgusted with our whiteness?  My brother started an email the other day with something like, “I know I’m a heterosexual white male, so I don’t have much of a say.”  Well fuck that, quite frankly.  That brother of mine is smart, compassionate, thoughtful, and someone who should be able to be my and our ally without being ashamed.  I know who I voted for, and I know who I stand by and with.  My girlfriend is Middle Eastern  No matter how westernized anyone is, all the hate and bigoted comments about people with brown skin–many kinds of brown skin–is terrifying to me.  She doesn’t say, “oh well you have nothing to worry about, because you’re white.”

  4. How am I/are we supposed to afford the amount of alcohol we deserve to get through this whole month if not the next four years.
  5. I wanted to get married my whole life.  Not in the way that I imagined a fantasy wedding with a fancy white dress and horse–well of course; I never really imagined myself in a big, white wedding gown–but just because I wanted the ability to have what my parents have.  The greatest love turned into an exciting partnership with many milestones.  I never thought much of it.

    I didn’t pay attention to marriage equality throughout my teens, because I was busy being a normal, confused, horny teenager focused on competitively achieving impossible female beauty standard of being under 100 pounds on any given day.

    | Sidebar: can we not have a president who pushes the most ridiculous idea of the female ideal on the public?  I thought we were getting somewhere.  Finally, we were getting to a place in society where I thought, hm…maybe I can actually have kids I will encourage to just be healthy and they’ll be like, ‘good idea!’  From more or less six years of experience with eating disorders, I can say that it’s not that fun to go to bed so hungry and in pain, not cushioned at all with my knee and leg bones touching each other, thinking, ‘I’m afraid I might not wake up tomorrow.’  But at least I was skinny.  And I’m kind of chubby now, but I’m also kind of like, ‘fuck you, Trump.  I hope you were right when you said Alicia Machado likes to eat, because I definitely do too, and I’m having fun doing it, assclown!’ |

    I dated boys and never thought that much about it until I met my long term college boyfriend.  He was so great and is to this day, but ultimately, we went our separate ways, at which point, like many do, I found myself smack in the midst of exiting my “possibly a bisexual person in conversation on my most blackout drunk nights” into full fledged homosexuality in one night’s time.

    I say homosexual, because that’s what I am, day by day, every day, especially in my current committed relationship with my girlfriend, Bettina.  But there’s always my broader view about the whole thing of sexuality in this article I once wrote.  And basically, what I’m getting at, is why the shit can I not get married?  And gay people could, by the time I was out of one closet and deep into another one full of Birkenstocks.  But only in some places.  I remember when Marriage Equality was passed.  I was so pleasantly surprised but also felt like, ‘right on, America–keep on pushing!’  Like this was a logical step in our progress.  Because it was.  And now, based on the politicians Grabbing The White House by The Pussy, we’re potentially about to go back to an old world style of not letting us homos get married.  And I’m sitting here like I THOUGHT THINGS WERE LOOKING GOOD FOR MY RELATIONSHIP!   And also…

  6. Not letting ladies govern their own bodies.  Ha!  First of all, let’s just all take a moment to bask, at a distance or as close as we feel comfortable with, in the inferno that Trump’s fucked up rhetoric about women left burning forever.  Like, if I’m even allowed to have children in the future, I don’t know if I want them to read what he said in their history text books.  But then again, at the rate we’re going, maybe we will be lucky if objective texts are still allowed to be taught.  So now that we’re all aware of pussy grabbing, defamation of women based on their weights and ethnicities; sometimes even pregnancy, we know where the basis for this sort of government control on reproductive health comes from.

    We need to be able to obtain affordable birth control.  Who knows what the final call on this healthcare provision will be, since Trump is now apparently up in the air about it.  I mean, when you are a dude known for getting with women all over town, it would probably be convenient to have birth control OR abortions be accessible instead of neither.  There are so many reasons for women to seek birth control, so what if it becomes harder to access affordably?  Period pain and symptoms, excess hair, unbalanced hormones, bad skin…who cares?  Right!  Whatever, man!  Women, right?   LOL.  And let’s not forget the icing on the cake–reconsidering Roe vs Wade!  And sidebar, is anyone familiar with the theory that unwanted pregnancies can lead to neglected kids who can become criminals?  It comes from the idea that crime dropped significantly a couple decades after Roe vs Wade was passed.  If Trump wants to reduce crime, I’m just sayin’ there’s kind of a theoretical shortcut here– don’t force women to bare children they aren’t ready or equipped to take care of.

  7. Am I supposed to be afraid to be Jewish again
  8. I know adults–not only young ones–but grown ass people who were so scared about Trump winning that they called their parents for comfort.  Many of the parents didn’t understand the drama.  To me, this was sad.  I have family who have suggested his campaign is nothing, that he will focus on straightening out (see what I did there!) finances and bounce without affecting social issues.  But then it’s like oh, Mike Pence, hay gurlllllll~~~~  And all the other people crawling into the festering, old Trump cabinet to take all the good away from us.  Most of us don’t have a comfortable sentiment about this.
  9. I imagined killing myself.  Why stay in a world where this stuff is fine and wins an election?  Basically, half of the country conveniently to actively doesn’t give a flying fuck about us.  The jokes we all mad about moving elsewhere if Trump (LOL!  Obviously kidding!) would ever get elected feel empty now.  I, among many, feel weak and nervous about the idea of leaving the beautiful, multicultural country we grew up in.  Our families and friends live here.  We like it here.
  10. We’re all people, people.  I’m so disappointed that the best credit I can give Trump supporters is that they’re after the financial side of the deal.  Well, I guess I didn’t realize money was so valuable to everyone that our neighbors’ safety and rights were up for reconsideration.  Not just our neighbors, but in many cases, our friends and for some of you, your goddamn children!  Shame on that.  But for those of you who share those views–the xenophobic, misogynistic, homophobic, racist ones that are making us all scared right now, shame on you so hard.  You are not Americans.

Your mom is a haiku

Once in a while you’re

off on a Friday.  It seems

likely you’ll get run over.