my youngest son, "Thing 3," uttered "Grass Oil" to describe what i once made for dinner. what is the Grass Oil blog? my observations about life from my cheap seats where everyone looks like ants. i'm funny, candid and i try to be nice, with some snark for flavor. Grass Oil: simple. random. elegant. there it is. ps – "Things" is a moniker to keep my kids off search engines.
I should be paid millions for what I’m about to explain.
Donald Drumpf is excelling at the polls and at the caucuses and at the debates and at the strip malls because of some very basic things:
He mostly speaks in monosyllabics. His words are not big ones.
He speaks loudly.
He doesn’t answer questions directly, instead, he says something else about something else.
He uses lots of the same words, often empirical, again and again.
He mostly speaks in simple terms: black & white, no nuance.
He makes fun of anyone who disagrees with him. His ridicule is often biting, sophomoric and redundant. He’s like that guy who watches you trip and then points and laughs. And then tells everyone else about it, while still pointing and laughing at you.
He says the kinds of things that one expects to hear at a local bar, while the little wife is at home.
He says the kinds of things that mirror what people are feeling.
He says the kinds of things that people who admire him can relate to.
He often affirms the fear and the rage and the sense of vengeance of middle-class white Americans who’ve lost their sons and daughters to war.
He often affirms the disenfranchisement of skilled laborers who’ve lost their jobs in America to companies or other laborers, often located overseas or “given” to “illegal” workers — not because they stole jobs, but because they are undocumented aliens from other nations.
His comments about the disabled, women, minorities (which is really funny because, well, what was once considered a minority race, i.e., Latinos, or Asians, are now in the popular majority) and other “fringe” outliers are considered privately in alignment with many of the Americans who admire him.
All of these Drumpfisms are very id-oriented. They feel familiar, because we all want to yell about things every once in a while. The id is our earliest psychological state: it’s from our id that we cried as babies when we wanted to be fed. It’s from our id that we cried when we wanted to be held. It’s from our id that we cried when we wanted to be changed. It’s from our id that we cried when we were startled.
The id is what keeps us alive; it’s where the heart of fear lives.
There are always two voices sounding in our ears: the voice of fear and the voice of confidence.
One is the clamor of the senses,
the other is the whispering of the higher self.
Charles B. Newcomb
It’s not anger that Drumpf represents. It’s fear. Fear of abandonment. Fear of famine. Fear of invisibility. Fear of irrelevance. So, in this dynamic, Drumpf is ideal: he mirrors the irrationality and fear of the masses who adore him, and they continue to adore him and tell their friends.
The id is no place to live. You can’t live in fear. Sure, your heart will continue to beat, but you will be miserable. Drumpf has no fears… well, none he will truly reveal.
The GOP establishment, i.e., The Elite, does itself no favors by pooping on Drumpf. The media does itself, nor HRC or Bernie Sanders any favors by pooping on Drumpf.
Why? Because most people who like Drumpf already hate or feel abandoned by the GOP establishment, the media, HRC and Bernie.
So when they poop on him, the supportive Drumpf people will be validated in their sense of isolation and abandonment. The media and its graphs and movies. The GOP Elite with its big words and tax codes and plans.
Where’s my blankie?
Americans who support Drumpf will NEVER support Sanders: as far as they’re concerned, Bernie wants to give everything away, even their daughters, and especially their money.
Americans who support Drumpf will NEVER support HRC: as far as they’re concerned HRC represents Obama, who they clearly hate and who they blame for their job losses and dead service member children (and/or siblings, spouses, friends, neighbors, relations).
Americans who support Drumpf think he’s going to save the day. They think he will be their “Daddy” as a good friend of mine put it; they think he’s going to sit on their veritable front porches, reading a leathered Hustler from the 70s, rocking under the bare bulb with a loaded shotgun resting across his lap.
Americans who support Drumpf expect him to be there, holding the door open when they come home from a date and not sniffing their breath or checking their eyes.
Because he won’t. Drumpf won’t do that to the Americans who support him.
Why?
Because Drumpf doesn’t care about Americans who support him. He just wants to win. Winning is all there is to him. He is a man obsessed with earning peoples’ favor, no matter how it’s acquired. He’s worried about what people think of the size of his hands.
So keep it up GOP Elite. Keep pooping on him and watch the numbers go up. Keep sending in Paul Ryan to continue to say absolutely nothing of substance about Drumpf’s posturing on anything. Continue being unspecific regarding Drumpf’s latent disavowal of the KKK and David Duke.
Paul Ryan handled that almost as evasively as Drumpf did. He was nice and obtuse. He was nice and unspecific. That was manly. Thanks, Mr. Ryan.
And now we have Mitt Romney stepping in with his perfect graying temples, megawatt smile, billionaire tan, Superman jawline, and exquisitely crinkled crow’s feet being specific and proper and starched collared and denouncing Drumpf, whose numbers will ascend like a helium balloon.
Face it, U.S. Republican Party: you’ve done this to yourselves. You’ve disconnected with any remaining centrist, moderate, reasonable members of your electorate who simply want you to balance the budget, mind your own business and get shit done. Instead, you’ve let people like Ted Cruz read Green Eggs & Ham on the floor of the senate (apologies to the late Dr. Seuss). You’ve not reprimanded Marco Rubio for his pathetic voting and attendance record. You’ve let Paul Ryan be beige and you’ve lost your way. Would you like some crumbs to leave on the path back to Grandma Pelosi’s house next time? Because no one will eat crumbs…
I don’t normally get into politics on my blog, but I need to start writing again and Drumpf is as good a nightmare as any to bite into and launch off. It’s a high-level, unsophisticated, unresearched and unverified post likely full of lots of generalizations which to me, boil down simply as: common sense.
When I was a very young mother, I read often to my first son, Thing 1, who is almost a senior in high school now. I still call him Thing 1 here on my blog because should colleges go looking for him online, they won’t find him by name here. Just by admitting that, am I practicing the art of deception? I suppose so, but I’m trying to let him establish his own cyber DNA and tell his own stories, so that’s that. “Deception” only comes into play when we are intending to get away with something. Seeing as how my son is not a horrible person, and has honestly worked hard academically, I’m just trying to let him have his own life.
I digress.
I used to read to him from a collection of Winnie-the-Pooh books. The first story “In Which We Are Introduced to Winnie-the-Pooh and Some Bees, and the Stories Begin” actually covers deception, so we know what kind of characters Winnie and Christopher are.
In that story, Pooh hears bees while on a walk. Instinctively, he figures that buzzing means bees and bees mean honey. Pooh wants honey (as usual). The problem is that the beehive is perched high up in a tree. Pooh has no respect for the bees. He says right from the start, “the only reason for being a bee that I know is making honey … And the only reason for making honey is so as I can eat it.”
Immediately, we get the sense that Pooh Bear is all about Pooh Bear, and that’s just that. He’s of a single focus, a one-track bear, and he doesn’t really sweat the details of a) exploiting the supply of his desire and b) allowing that bees exist for purposes other than sating his desires.
Pooh goes after the honey unsuccessfully. He falls out of a tree, he lands in a “gorse” bush with prickers in his backside and he’s almost out of gas, but he’s still a strong enough bear to want what he wants, gorse bush or no gorse bush. Then he thinks of Christopher Robin. (Who knew that CR was Pooh’s chump?) Pooh devises a plan, which requires a blue balloon to match the sky so that the bees won’t notice it, because y’know, bees are stupid, according to Pooh.
Christopher being smart, asked Pooh about the bees noticing Pooh beneath the balloon.
“You can never tell with bees,” said Pooh. So he considered a bit more and then said, “I shall try to look like a small black cloud. That will deceive them.” Pooh decides to roll in the mud, to look more like a black cloud. In order to deceive the bees. So he can get his honey. Because it’s all about him.
So as the story goes on, Pooh gets the balloon to lift him to the hive and he shouts down an inquiry to Christopher Robin, “What do I look like?”
Christopher Robin said, “You look like a Bear holding on to a balloon.”
“Not, not like a small black cloud in a blue sky?” Pooh asked.
“Not very much,” said Christopher.
Now hold your horses. Before you start saying that I’m comparing Pooh’s mud bath with fallen NAACP-Spokane’s embattled Rachel Dolezal and her repeated appearances since her NAACP transracial (wow, spellcheck did not correct that) scandal broke, as she masqueraded as a black woman (thus perpetuating the stereotype) I want you to take a breath.
Just let me say this: you’re absolutely right.
But this isn’t even the part in the story where Christopher Robin was implicated. Later on, Pooh asks Christopher to fetch an umbrella and say, “Tut-tut, it looks like rain…” (Now I’m not sure of the motive for lying about the rain…) and Pooh continued, “If you did that, it would help the deception which we are practising on these bees.” Sadly, Christopher indulged.
As the rest of the story goes, it turns out it was the wrong sort of bees who were at the hive and Pooh had no way to get down unless he let go of the balloon. Christopher ended up shooting the balloon with his pop gun and Pooh came down, aggressively and landed in a bit of pain. Then Pooh’s arms were stuck in “hanging from a balloon in the sky” pose for a week. The moral of the story: don’t practice deception. Tell the truth. Or you will fall on your ass and your arms will get stuck. I think my sons mostly got the point. No one is perfect, but they know that telling the truth means a lot less trouble than lying.
So at least Winnie was honest about being deceptive. At least he was clear in his intentions: to get honey for himself. At least he didn’t continue a narrative in which he didn’t correct other peoples’ mischaracterizations and misidentifications of him. He didn’t practice the art of syntax and semantic masturbation. He didn’t keep rolling in the mud to look like a black cloud to deceive bees. He didn’t lie and call Christopher Robin his ‘dad.’
Lies: we have direct falsehoods and they suck. We have omitting truths (aka “sins of omission”) which has grades of harm, depending on range and depth of the omission — “No one ever asked me if I put the envelope in the mail to pay my taxes four years in a row” is a pretty big sin of omission. Then there’s “energetic” and “intention” misrepresentations based on syntax and semantics (make sure your voice raises by the end of this sentence): a tacit understanding that everyone believes the same thing? That’s akin to “well, she didn’t ask me outright if I slept with that woman repeatedly while we were married…” — that’s bullshit that people like to hide behind because they don’t have the guts to come out and express themselves in the actual inauthentic persona they’re trying to portray.
Because I’m a word freak, I’m often open to interpretations and nuances and intentions. That said, when we use words commonly understood as being quite clear in their definition and traditional interpretation, you better be singing from the same sheet of music as everyone else is. A contract isn’t a nice idea, it’s a binding agreement. Skilled liars will make it so hard for the rest of us: in that we have to ask such pointed questions (as in the Clinton testimony during the Lewinsky scandal) that it’s work because they are deft manipulators and compartmentalizers.
Regarding the black older man Dolezal marched and paraded with and called him her “father” or “dad” she used the argument so many like to use, “Anyone can be a father; not everyone can be a ‘dad'” and other embarrassing concepts like that. We all know what we really mean, and you do too, Rachel, so … just cut the shit.
Words mean things, they have specific definitions. If you don’t think words really mean things; that it’s all “energy” and “intention,” peeps, then stop using them. Just stop. Intentionally obscuring the definition of the word, in order to suit your own “energetic” or “intentional” means agenda is plain crap and you need to get a grip.
I’m just going to come out with it: liars are weak. They are fearful. They practice duplicity or let you ride on a wave of naivety because you’re a good person. You believe what people tell you. You believe your understanding of a widely used word, say, “cheat” is the same understanding that any person would have. Unless you’re talking to a cheater, and then all bets are off.
It’s like when Bill Clinton famously TESTIFIED, “It all depends on what your interpretation of ‘is’ is.”
Look, we’re not idiots. Don’t jack with us.
Yet, we look away from Clinton’s testimony, now with hazy memories and perhaps softer hearts — not because we decide to let bygones be bygones, but because we realize that people, everywhere, are all a little crazy and that when your hand is in the cookie jar, you better have a) a really good reason; b) permission from mom; c) a great story to tell; or d) an admission and request for mercy. Just for the record, none of those things happened from Clinton and it’s unlikely they will happen with fallen NBC anchor Brian Williams who “misremembered” (which I didn’t know was a word until last winter) nor will they happen with Dolezal. She sits proudly and determinedly, in her stew of semantics, omissions, energetic intentions, emotional nuances and … oh yes, complete lies.
The DolefulDolefulDoleful (ha! spellcheck!) Dolezal interview with NBC’s Matt Lauer on the Today show blew my mind:
She smiles and laughs at the interview. Like she just won a patent trial against Samsung. Lauer doesn’t bat an eye. She’s all “ha ha… I’m smug … it all depends on what your definition of ‘definition‘ is…”
Who knows why anyone does anything anymore. Anyway…
Around 46 seconds into the interview, Lauer’s voice starts to shake. His mouth tightens. I’ve been there — it’s likely starting to go numb because all the blood is draining to pump his heart to keep his legs where they are so he doesn’t leap and kill her for her attitude. It’s as though he can’t believe he has to say the words he’s having to say. He sounds as though he’s ready to come unhinged and scream at her, “ARE YOU FREAKING CRAZY?! DO YOU EXPECT US TO BELIEVE YOU?!”
At 4:50, he asks her SPECIFICALLY about blackface. In her current form, she decried the practice.
Yesterday morning, I wondered, why am I so bothered about this? None of this has anything to do with me and it likely never will. It bothers me because blackface is so completely horrible and racist and offensive and yet she denies she perpetuates it — all of it — because she gets to say (after she probably paid a PR hack a few thousand dollars), “I identify as black.”
Before Dolezal’s parents outed her as being duplicitous (I don’t even want to KNOW what that relationship is all about), it never would have occurred to someone to doubt another person’s racial integrity these days; we’re supposed to be working on being “color blind.” The NAACP has had white officers before. Its founders include white people. So, when I think of Rachel Dolezal in 2015, I have to ask: why would a member of the press need to do that? And why would anyone lie about it? The whole thing baffles.
Her story is just jarring for me. It’s like my “Earth Wind & Fire” station on Pandora. I’m bopping and jamming to “September,” and then “Brick House” and then “Play that Funky Music” and then a song by The Archies comes on. What the what…?
I was reading social media comments about this and someone, who is black, put it very clearly: “you can identify WITH blacks, but not AS black because you are NOT.” Semantics? No. I get to defer to that man, and any other African American because this issue, while it deeply offends me, is not about perpetuating a lifestyle, but only in the easy, good parts. Dolezal gets to choose her dad now; she got to adopt one of her sons who was first her adopted brother by her parents, and she gets to darken her skin and not understand the questions and skirt the facts when intelligent people confront her with intelligent questions.
She should run for president.
I’m left-handed. I don’t identify as right handed. I don’t identify with right handed people; I am forced to because the world is geared toward right handed people, but that doesn’t mean I AM giving up my left-handedness.
I realize my dexterity comparison is faint, that it’s weak, but it’s all I got. I also know that I have no dog in this race. That I’m a white woman who doesn’t have one clue about what it’s like to be any other ethnicity. I haven’t bothered to try; that would be false of me. That would be lying. I have compassion for all races and all people, but I don’t need to fake being anyone other than myself because as I said in my post about Caitlin (nee Bruce) Jenner, being who I am is hard enough as it is.
I grew up with people who lied, who bent the truth and who outright set out to deny, deceive, and deflect in order to keep only a certain type, the “no one gets hurt by my choices” light shining on them, which usually is another self-deception and a complete untruth. Anytime you lie, you are hiding who you are from people. That hiding grows and becomes part of your fabric. If your story is based on a lie, then you lie all the more. Whatever the impetus: fear, shame, arrogance, narcissism, smugness, assholicry, you are slowly shredding away at the relationships you’ve formed with people who rely on you to be the person you are. They begin to not trust you. Your reputation follows you. You have to work hard to regain trust.
I have worked hard in my adult life to be real. To separate myself from those who continue to practice duplicity, and I won’t willingly partake in anything in which deception is exercised. I can’t; bending truth is in direct conflict with my sense of who I am. My yoga practice requires truth. My personal philosophy demands it. My cousin once called me “the troubadour of truth” and I wear the mantle proudly. The truth, while it might be inconvenient, engenders a clear conscience, which is so much easier to sleep on.
I walked up to the school and nodded to some friends. They were selling baked goods at the PTA bake sale. I didn’t donate anything this year. I worked that gig three years in a row before I was PTA president. I avoided the political flyer people by walking along the inside wall of the courtyard, hearing my husband in my head, as he coached his soccer team, “Not in the middle! Down the line!”
The lines were not long to vote. I got in mine, the A-M line, and waited. I spent time talking to a neighbor and then admired an elegantly dressed Middle Eastern couple, she in her peacock-toned gown and elaborate golden jewelry and he in a beautiful black suit and sporting a very cool mustache. They were speaking in their native language, but the energy wafting off them said to me that this was a big moment for them. I couldn’t help but marvel at their sense of wonder and excitement, they were going to vote for a president, probably their first time, in America.
The poor bastards.
A brand-new-to-voting American teenager got in line with his mother. He was wearing a skater t-shirt and skinny jeans and she was wearing a sweatshirt with the American flag on it. And pants, she was wearing pants for sure. They murmured about the issues and kept to themselves, his mother beaming with pride over her son, stroking his back. Some other people streamed in, workerbees from here and there and a grandmother with her grandson who was about five. He was holding her driver’s license, excited to hand it over to the volunteers on the other side of the table a couple dozen people down the N-Z line.
I was wearing my uniform: yoga pants, running shoes, an impossibly difficult to get into tank top, a running jacket and pony-tailed hair under a baseball cap. I had a headache: I had been at the pool the night before for water / swim testing novice rowers on my son’s rowing high school team. I don’t do well with the chlorine vapors and still, more than 12 hours later, everything smelled like faint bleach. But I was excited to be there. Voting is always like Christmas to me: you make your list, you send it up and you really don’t know what you’ll get in the end. Will the gift you wished for be as magical as you thought it would or will you get another book from your hopeful parents brimming and overflowing with enthusiasm over a first-edition of A Tale of Two Cities?
This polling place is my children’s school gymnasium. The weather was cold, but clear on Election day. The walk up along the path is very pleasant. On the national news election night, they had a broadcast from a school in our town and my kids went bananas. “That’s our gym! That’s our school!” and I had to remind them that no, it wasn’t. The mascot was all wrong.
We were all there, waiting to make our mark after more than a year of hearing about this day. I was sure of whom I was going to vote for only because it was more so a vote against someone else, as it had been in 2008. Come to think of it, I haven’t actually voted in favor of anyone in a very long time.
This isn’t how it’s supposed to go is it?
People streamed in and the line grew longer. My doubts about everything started to bubble up in my mind. I am a Libra so I’ve been accused of being wishy-washy and non-committal a lot. I can’t stand that assumption, frankly, because I’m pretty firm on a lot of things in life. I was about three people away from reciting my name and address and then getting my red voter card that I would hand to another person who would gesture me to my booth.
A few moments later, another couple came in: she was a police officer in her blues and he was wearing a Dominion Power uniform. Superstorm Sandy was still wreaking havoc on power lines in Northern Virginia, so I appreciated that this guy took some time out of his day to vote. The little boy was scraping his pants with his granny’s ID. Then, all of a sudden, I didn’t know anymore. I realized, I didn’t know who I am anymore as a political American. Like a zombie I recited my bona fides to the bespectacled man behind the table. Daunted, confused and whatever, I took my red card, handed it to the other lady and went in to vote.
The screen pulsated and glowed beneath me: red, blue, green. And those blasted Commonwealth of Virginia code changes and bond referenda. Geez Louise, they could use a class in Power Point. How about some bullet points and breaking out the paragraphs. Skip the president part… go back later.
I resented the whole concept that I didn’t believe in either one of these guys. I was ready for the day, for sure! But I wasn’t ready for either one of these guys to resume management or take the reins of my country. I dig America. I tell my kids whenever they complain about anything, “Uh, you woke up in America today. People are dying to live here. Still! You have nothing to complain about. There are people without schools, police, libraries, hospitals, parks… get a grip.” They agree with me for the most part, except the schools, some of which are among the best in the nation.
I went back to the president part. Nope. Skip over to the state and local decisions. That was easy. Back to the president…hmm. Screw it. I pushed the buttons and I voted. I pushed “Confirm vote” and immediately I was overcome with buyer’s remorse.
I thought, “What have I done?”
It’s hard to believe only three days have passed (two, really). I posted on my Facebook status the other day after the election that although I am a fiscal conservative, I am a social liberal although I aligned myself with the republican party for this year’s election SOLELY on the financial aspect of the country. I think I freaked out some people who thought they knew me. Yeah, you can do yoga and still want a financially sound country. That’s how I roll. When I voted, I didn’t sweat the smaller, personal issues: women’s health, gun control, gay marriage and other hot topics like that because to ME, those are state-level issues and I voted accordingly at the state level.
Before things get too serious here, let’s digress but stay somewhat on topic:
“agh c’mon i’m not a robot, ok? i wish. that i could go higher and you could rotate my arm and send me whooshing into space.”
I am an Alex P. Keaton republican, a traditionalist in the “Family Ties” mold of the 1980s. Alex loved Reagan and I did too. When the Iran hostage situation was going on, I was a kid, in 8th grade and I watched with fascination how that whole thing went down. Reagan appealed to me; he had a nice way about him on TV at least and I was hooked. I believe in capitalism. I believe in working hard and bootstrapping and building a great life for yourself. I subscribe to the Wall Street Journal for goodness sake. AND… The New Yorker magazine.
The fiscal cliff really bothers me. We haven’t had our own money in a long time. We are printing it. There is nothing there. In the famous words of Gertrude Stein when discussing her hometown of Oakland, California after a long absence, “There is no there, there.” When I was a kid, I heard panics that we were broke all the time despite a Volvo in the driveway, a Steinway in the house and a sailboat moored at a yacht club, private school, day camps and a house in Canada. I’m not emotionally good when it comes to money issues, so this fiscal stuff is a trigger for me.
I’m not a pundit and frankly, I’m not sure I want to be. I know what I know: that it takes $78 to fill my tank. That milk costs $3.99 a gallon. That dinner out with my kids to a very unexciting place costs $50 now. 117,000 jobs in one month in a country with 22 million unemployed is NOT a big deal. The economy is more stalled than a rusted out dump truck in Moe’s Hauler Yard. I don’t need to tell you this. Our national debt has gone up $6 trillion under Obama since he promised to halve it. Our (me, you, that guy, his sister, her friend, that dude at Taco Bell…) personal share is more than $50,000 each. Our kids? Probably in the range of $100,000 each. This is not a legacy I’m excited about. This is not what I want in a likable president. When I heard the media report that Obama’s likability rating was higher than Romney’s and was actually considered relevant in this race, I thought, “yeah, I wanna play beer pong with the Commander in Chief, that’s how I know he’s gonna be a good leader, ’cause he can get you free smokes at the bar and he’s smooth with the ladies…” But hey, I don’t mind hanging with the guy as long as he’s you’re buying the tab.
Where am I Socially? Where I’ve always been: everyone should live and let live; life is hard enough on its own, why must we go around telling other people how to live more than we already do: don’t murder, don’t steal, don’t buy drugs, don’t sleep with your friend’s spouse, don’t skip out on taxes, don’t speed, don’t lie, don’t park here, don’t eat meat on Fridays during Lent, don’t make fun of your sister in that dress. You know: be good, tell the truth, pay your freakin’ taxes.
I believe lots of things that apparently don’t matter to the republican party because they’re too busy telling people how to live. I know I’m not alone. Some of my most extremely liberal friends have told me the same, they simply didn’t feel like they fit in. Except for one… she was ready to vote Obama in for a second term right after he was sworn in for the first. I love her anyway though. Which I still can’t believe when I consider the debt. I just can’t. I mean: would you stay with a friend or a lover who ran up your credit card bills to a point where you’d have to declare bankruptcy? That’s where we are, folks. I can’t wait to see the next inaugural celebration. I wonder who will perform then. I’m sure it will be gratis. Because he’s so … likable. Eww.
Romney might’ve blown it with the 47% gaffe and by picking a white, male running mate. I thought for sure that Romney would make an excellent Ward Cleaver turned president. After four years of Ryan Seacrest, I was ready for someone to send my friends home, tell me to brush my teeth and go to bed because I had school in the morning.
Still, back to the finances: I believe in a hand-up not a hand-out. I feel Obamacare is putting our doctors’ practices and ability to properly care for people in jeopardy. Many will have to leave managed care and go into super-private VIP practice just to keep their lives sane. I don’t think marijuana should be legalized. Isn’t smoking doobies mostly a high school and college thing? If there are people my age still getting high off dope, then … well … really?! I happen to agree with another person who commented privately the other day that if this is how America is shaping up to be, then perhaps Romney shouldn’t be so disappointed that he lost because the American voting populace is sort of … well, embarrassing. This other person said lately, “We are France.”
hey…. was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor?
And trying to explain the electoral college to my son after he countered with “When we vote for pizza in school, and pizza voters are the majority, we get pizza. This doesn’t make any sense” was clearly pointless. I have long believed that the electoral college is a frigging stupid, bizarre, screwed up, absolutely completely inane concept; I’d like the electoral college to lose its accreditation. If I didn’t want my vote to count, I wouldn’a bothered to vote.
So whaddya do when you’re me? When you believe that socially, people should be left to live their lives but fiscally you believe that it’s time to go to bed for school in the morning?
Grass Oil by Molly Field 
