Life List: Bewick’s Wren

Wrens can be hard to be sure about.  I know an expert could just clock ’em in a heartbeat.  I’m not so good with LBBs.  There’s this one type of wren I’ve only encountered in marshy environments and assumed was a marsh wren, but upon looking at wren photos tonight, it looks much more like the pacific wren.  Who’s who?

Easier is the wren I see the most often.  Bewick’s wren is super common in the Puget Sound Trough and has strong enough markings to distinguish from whoever else might be on this side of the mountains.  I first got a good look at them in my first Federal Way apartment, some better looks at another apartment in that city, and at last down here in Auburn.  They are all the hell over my neighborhood, chirping up a storm at the appropriate times of year.

Bewick’s wren is a little brown bird with a pale chin and belly, and a strong light eyebrow streak.  Beady black eyes like Hello Kitty, of course.  Thin stripes on wings and tail, orb-like proportions tho not as strongly as on bushtits.  Wrens of all types, to my understanding, are most notable for carrying their tails in the air.  Gotta show they ass, in the parlance of our times.  They love hanging out in bushes, especially along the tops of taller ones, six to ten feet or so.

Ren is a name that shows up in japanese cartoons from time to time.  The one I remember offhand is a little girl that got resurrected by a magic sword in Inuyasha.  There’s Ren Höek of course, a “problematic fave” of mine from sex creep John Kricfalusi’s classic kid’s show.

It can also be short for Lorenzo, apparently?  There was a guy in NWA named Ren, nicknamed “The Villain.”  Ice Cube called him Lorenzo in that famous old ditty Fuck tha Police, we can assume that to be his birth name.  Do rappers have dead names?  I’ll call him Ren or The Villain if he wants me to.  Gotta stay true to the principles.

Wonderfully, the German word for wren translates to “Fence King.”  Smol but regal.

What other qualities can we infer from this bird’s presence in prose and poetry?  They’re sneaky as fuck when it comes to crime, gonna smoke ’em now and not next time.  Make you think they’re gon kick your ass, but drop your gat, and wren’s gonna blast.

Shit like that.

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1000th Post

My 1000th post on this blog network was queued to be a birdpost about an LBB.  Observe it later today.  This is no kind of celebration of my multifarious thunks, my grande historie of letters.  So.  Gotta think of a way to honor myself properly.

Remember when I was Great American Satan?  God, that was so long ago.  What an innocent child I was back then, cavorting in alpine meadows and singing to the little birdies.  Lalalalala.  But seriously, this is a good time to explain again why the name change.  Great American Satan is derived from the words of Ayatollah Khomeini, as mocked by USian propaganda that was intended to depict the muslim world as uniquely backward.

It was islamophobic.  I still proudly stand against almost all of the shit ayatollahs believe in, but can’t disregard the fact my country is the greatest purveyor of evil in the world.  We genuinely fucked Iran for oil, for military adventurism, for capitalism – and most of the countries in the world besides.  The only reason we regard Iran’s nasty theo-fascist ass as an enemy is because they beat us, and refuse to make Nikes like Vietnam does now, or give us sweetheart deals on oil like nasty theo-fascist Saudis.  Now we’ve gone full fash.  How could I mock anybody in the world who has a bone to pick with us, no matter how shit they are?  This bone must get picked.

But back to the real subject at hand:  Beauteous I.

How do I love me?  Let me count the ways.  Didja know Edgar Allan Poe was Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s biggest fanboy?  He had some over-the-top praise for her, at least.  History seems to have validated his opinion; the average fool remembers some of her words, if not her name.  She’s well known and well regarded in her field, I think.  Poets correct me if I’m wrong.

I have to think that blogging will never rise to the level of famous prose and poetry because of the disparity in effort, and this is a good thing.  A blogger might have a bon mot go viral, especially masters of microblogging, but few posts will outlive their moment.  How many can you remember?  PZ’s Grenade, tho that was more about the circumstances than the craft.  Intent! It’s Fucking Magic! by Genderbitch?  Journalists of the dead tree variety, to the extent that exists, suffer a similar impermanence.  I’ve seen journalism described as “writing on running water,” and it’s telling that I don’t remember with certainty who coined the expression or if I got the phrasing right.

Having a thousand posts of a blog, that is something of an achievement.  It takes a special kind of self-regard to keep spitting the contents of your head into The Void, day after day for years on end.  Most FtBers aren’t up to the task.  Before I started using queuing to achieve a post per day, I wasn’t doing daily posts either.  Often I’d miss a week or two, sometimes I’d miss a whole month.

And yet I was always more of a presence here than most of those sidebar characters.  This I recognize as well in my writing group: I often do the writing activities, far more often than anyone else but my husband.  He succeeds at noveling months more often than I do, but I have more morale for seeing the writing prompt events through.  Everybody else?  They try, sometimes, but it doesn’t even come close.

I am the champions, my friends.  I don’t mean to denigrate my colleagues; I am simply wondering aloud, why is this so hard to do for so many?  Why is regular blogging such a challenge?  Since it’s the majority of aspiring writers that have this issue, I can’t regard it as something to be ashamed of.  The freaks that post all the time, there’s probably something wrong with us.  But I dig being that kind of freak.

So raise a glass for your humble Bébé Mélange.  Life is indeed a gas, powered in part by satan and america and some flavor of greatness, as much as I’m trying to move past those things, generally.  And read the next post for some bullshit about birds.  You enjoy life.  I’m watching you, and if you do not, there will be consequences.  Everything is coercion now, it’s cool.  Compulsory fun for you.

Take your medicine!

This is just random crapola.  But then, that is the essence of blogging.  I hope other people get something out of it, but I would definitely be doing it for myself alone, if I had to.  The world needs my opinions, obviously.  One day, in circling the trashfire like a confused turkey and poking at the mess, I will accidentally into the answer for Lasting World Peace, or otherwise solve the big intractable questions that have dogged us since time immemorial.

Be here for it.  Thank you.

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Death Magic

See my previous couple of posts for some thoughts and feelings on magic and death.  Continuing my most recent thoughts and building on them, welcome to this post.  Although it’s being written pretty stream-of-consciousness, so if anything coherent comes of it, that’s just luck.

I had a brief moment watching a playthrough of Elden Ring wherein I genuinely felt the magic of spooky weirdos in the service of death sorceries.  Reminded me of when I feel tha magic in other media, like the weirding way from Dune, like Jim Morrison bullshit in that Oliver Stone Doors movie, like… I dunno.  The part in Lord of Illusions when the ground is crumbling away from Nyx’s feet and he’s still levitating like it’s no biggy.

So this has me wondering how I might use that inspiration to write better magic in my own stories.

Y’know I still don’t have a good strong idea of just what Josefina in J&B is capable of and how it works.  It would be super useful to have that figured out before I write the last half of that book.  The last scene of my first big chonk of that book has her teleporting short distances and anchoring a spirit creature to the ground so Blasfemia can finish it off.  I do know at least one big impressive thing I want her to do at the end of the story.  What can build toward that?

A bit off topic but related and I may double back to it before I’m done here.  In this one I was thinking about my thinking about my notions on Death Magic.  Previously I said that magic in this context is less about exerting one’s will over reality than interacting in a more profound way with the big important concepts in life – love sex chaos death etc.  It’s about emotion.  Surrealism is not much without feeling behind it.  It helps surrealism hit right if the feeling is one of the big ones; magic too, I think.  Maybe.  Like I said, working off the top of my head here.

How do I feel about death?  What is it?  I don’t like it.  Like, I don’t wanna die.  Really don’t.  There’s a goofy song by Depeche Mode called Flies on the Windscreen which states its case with the opening lyrics:  “Death is everywhere!  There are flies on the windscreen for a start, Reminding us!  We could be torn apart.”  This is real as shit.  Death and dying are everywhere you look in this world.  Part of life, of course, but if you’re feeling it, it’s sure easy to let that turn you into a goth.

The further I get from the moment that inspired this, the more the feeling is faded, like a dream.  I may have been drifting toward sleep in that moment.  God I feel like I could sleep any damn time.  When I retire, I’m gonna sleep six hours, wake up for two, then sleep another three.  And it’s gonna feel awesome.

Anyway, how can I get back to that moment, remember what it’s like?  Gotta focus on my feelings.  How do I feel about death, really?  If I strip away the bullshit and the philosophy, but don’t go so simple as to say “it sux and be scary.”  What is death, to me?  It’s so hard to focus.  I closed my eyes and felt it out.

First thing that came to mind was the inevitability of it.  It’s looming there like a monolith… more like the walls of a prison and I’m inside.  Second thing, the absurdity of it.  More specifically, of people’s responses to it.  There are the religious faithful, which we can scorn or pity in our own ways.  More absurd tho are the things people do with their lives.  The fact death looms large in front of orngdolf shitler renders the way he’s choosing to live his life profoundly absurd.  But that’s true of most of us as well.  When you consider that you could die at any moment but you’re still going to work and living like a human being, instead of wilding out, doing anything you love and that you’re capable of…  It’s depressing, appropriately.

It’s a joke and we’re all the punchline.  It’s meaningless.  It’s the return to zero.  Even the Universe is ultimately going to die.  When I’m having trouble focusing, it’s the quiet in between the notes of the static.  It’s the low point on the brainwave graph.  Again, it’s all around and looming and cannot be escaped.  So what was the feeling that intrigued me there, in something I normally avoid the contemplation of?

Maybe it’s the way I’m horny on goths.  In my cowardice, when I see somebody who does not look away from death, they become powerful to me, magnetic.  Was I just being horny on the concept of this character?  Doesn’t feel like it.

Truth.  The fictional depictions of magic that move me are the ones where a character knows something about reality and it confers on them a kind of power.  Fia the Deathbed Companion doesn’t look away from death.  She intentionally focuses herself on it fully, and though she has some magic powers from that awareness, the most magical thing about it is the awareness itself.  Drink a big glass of poison and in the moment before it kills, live forever.  Live the thing that others fear.  Don’t fear the reaper.

I don’t think killers are cool.  The cool assassin man from movies, nay.  It’s fun to watch the action as no-names go flyin’ from the paired pistolas of Chow Yun-fat, but he’s gotta have a good reason to do it, and they gotta genuinely not be human in any way.  Chaff, or Snidely Whiplash’d.  Killing people sucks and the extent to which it happens IRL makes the fiction less appealing to me these days.  But the mortified character, whether dying saintly or transcending life more grotesquely, cenobite style – that’s an interesting character.  Powerful.

I dunno i dunno.  Probably feel different about that tomorrow.  I’ve thought before that when I die, I wanna look like that bog mummy.  You know, the one that looks so peaceful, like he laid down to take a nap and crumpled into the earth just a bit, to lay there forever.  That guy died violently, of course.  Nice to imagine otherwise.  Let my sleep be peaceful and dignified – not that I’ll be there to care about it.   Still.

The death wizard is already dead and not dead yet, fully aware of and in communion with the walls of this prison, a part of the Universe in a way most are not.  That’s power enough.  I don’t know what it means.  Still haven’t figured that biz out.  Still can’t conceive of ways to express this idea on the page that don’t feel like aping what’s come before, or worse just come off like some dungeons & dragons.  This’ll have to do for now.

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Jongleurs of Love

I wish I remembered this dream better.  The other night the alarm woke me in the middle of scheming on a heist, with my crack team of specialists.  There was a lady who specialized in hacky sack and a guy who was some kind of juggler or master of throwing knives.  She was in her mid 20s and a lil butch, he was slim and balding and more like mid 30s.  However, their propensity for tossing things around caused an animal magnetism between them, and they fell in love.  Not like passionate tear off your shirts love, but always being together in solemn companionship love, like they’d been married for years.

Anyway, my subconscious thinks you need to have interests in common for twue wuv, and that’s probably informed by my conscious experience.  Met my husband in art school.  LTRs in the comments, do you have a lot in common with your lover, or are you on that “opposites attract” bit like Paula Abdul and that animated cat?

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In other things, I’m still thinking about magic.  Was watching some dudebro play Elden Ring on yewchoob and his guy was obliged by the game play to be embraced by Fia the Deathbed Companion, and acquire “a baldachin’s blessing.”  I really like the way some types of damage in that game, like frenzied flame, deathblight, and scarlet rot, are themes that unite factions and monsters – and are themes you can take for your own, influencing in some cases how the game ends.

In particular I was moved by this odd moment in my head when the goofy fantasy notion of Death reached out a bony finger and touched my feelings about really real life tragic death.  There’s something in that.  I get focused on how magic is an extension of the will, mind over matter, but it’s also a heightened relationship with the fundamental forces of nature, the big concepts that dominate our lives like sex and love, chaos and death.  A feeling powerful enough to move one’s self, change one into something more and less than human as it passes through your bod.

Reminder I’m not trying to say magic is real.  I’m just feeling out better ways to represent it in fiction, to touch that transcendant feeling of it.

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It’s a Kind of Magic

I find myself lusting for magic again.  I may have mentioned before that my soul is forfeit because I made an ill-considered deal with the devil while walking home from a shift at Pizza Hut in the ’90s:  Show me magic is real and you can have my soul.  Why make such a foolish deal?  Because the world can seem so very dull and pointless.

I can’t tell you why it feels to me like magic would make it interesting and worthwhile.  There’s evidence a lot of people out there feel this way, especially those who are able to fool themselves into believing, at least in fits and starts.  Probably cultural damage of some kind.  It doesn’t really make sense.

Some people have very magical thoughts, like they’re the center of reality, important and big in some way.  It isn’t always a good feeling; you see this a lot with paranoia-flavored mental illnesses.  Tough to feel OK with life when everybody is out to get you.

I didn’t really want to write about that.  I’m just trying to put a finger on this feeling again.  The place it’s most relevant to me is in the creation of art.  I can’t make myself believe in some cult bullshit or mainstream religion either.  I can’t eke a transcendant spiritual feeling out of the things that I do believe, in my heart of hearts.  All that stuff just overwhelms in a bad way.  But fiction, that’s another thing altogether.

This feeling connects to other thoughts I’ve had in the past, as expressed through blog posts on The Doors, on levitation, on action, on Faust.  Is it wrong to want the weirding way?  To be a scanner, or if I’m ready to go, to get scanned?  I want my will to move the world, just a little bit.  Push.

I am reminded now of the Floaters-themed personal ads on my levitation post, and how they should be updated to reflect my current name.  Here I go…

Cancer, and my name is Bébé
And I like a lover who gots somethin’ extra in their jayjays
Whether that’s a big belly or a dingly dang dongus
There’s no way you and I can go wrongus
when you
Take my hand, come with me baby, to Love Land.
Let me show you it’s queer and/or gay
Sharin’ your love with Bébé
I want you to Float On… Float with me baby…

Way off topic.  The important thing is that y’all tell me how you do it.  Projecting your will like Charles Gray in The Devil Rides Out.  Stop holding out.  Slip me the runes.  I can handle it.  It’s time.

JUST GIVE ME THE PRIZE!

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Life List: Song Sparrow

There are sparrow sparrows, from the Old World where Karl of Linne was doing his big naming project, and decided they were the for real deal.  Then there are embirizids or New World Sparrows, which include most of what this amurrican would ever talk about.  Of those, the song sparrow is one of the most common and most commonly heard.

I feel like there was a Calvin and Hobbes comic with a very realistically drawn song sparrow in it, but don’t recall for sure.  At any rate, they are streaky brown and grey things like every other sparrow around here so who cares?  But they sez god jeezy has his eye on the sparrow, so… get judged, fools.

I didn’t know song sparrows were so common because they aren’t so easy to see.  Maybe if I had a bird feeder to watch all day.  For years after I started paying attention to birds, I never saw one with the clarity to ID it.  Only once I used the birdy app to recognize calls did I find out just how common they are.  And, having become more familiar in that way, I finally took some notice of them visually.

Still not very often.  One time they blew past me like lightning at the rhododendron garden in Federal Way, one time I saw them cross the footpath in the wee hours outside my old place of work, and one time I saw them in the rose bush in front of my house.  But if you know the calls, they are everywhere, all the time.

And yet… I don’t know the calls.  Just don’t have a good memory for ’em.  The list of birds whose calls I recognize is much shorter than the ones I know visually, and the more varied and complex a bird’s calls are, the less I can remember them.

Why am I writing about a bird I barely recognize, am not impressed by, and have no stories about?  I needs an angle…

Song sparrows are drab little brown birds that compensate with a fancy song.  Some people are like that.  I was reaching for this in my head and first person that came to mind was Teena Marie, the very ’80s singer who did not look amazing.  She looked fine, like any rando you’d meet working the counter at the bank or the grocery store, but had a big voice – and she wrote her own songs?  That’s a skill that a lot of singers don’t have.  Good job.

Then I find out she died of unknown presumed natural causes, not even 55 years old.  Life is cruel and sheisty.  Hey, I’ve got 6 years until I’m as old as she was when she checked out.  Gotta watch my back for scythes.

Anyway, the art of writing a tune is real business and I don’t think I always appreciated it, until listening to a bunch of bob dylan covers on a random lark one time.  The best way to tell if a song is really well written is to divorce it from its original style completely and see if it still stands up, and the more covers you have, the more evidence you have to weigh and consider.  Nobody’s gonna cover Teena Marie, so we’ll just have to decide about her qualities for ourselves.

As far as I’m concerned?  She’s alright.

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RP by Comment 00004

~Previous~ 🏵️ ~Next~

The freshmen were at last rewarded with cheap but nice sandwiches, chips, cookies, and cola at the cafeteria.  The professor was probably supposed to be coming around to them individually, but succumbed to anxiety of her own, and slouched in a corner.  That meant some amount of freedom again to talk to whomever one desired.  Ilmardan was beginning to get the idea of this place.  Some students were from families too poor or too practical to pay for the tuition at fancier schools, some were orienting themselves toward careers that didn’t require a full four year degree, some were taking practical classes to support jobs they had elsewhere or to try branching out into something new.  But most noteworthy, some were here because they were scandalized.  Black sheep, the kids you don’t have high hopes for anymore.  Punks and dropouts.  Ilmardan saw the graffiti, the radical flyers stuck to the walls next to advertisements for concerts and art shows and dubious supplements and school events.  What kind of mess might one get into, in such a place?  What was he going to try to do with his time here, socially or academically, really?  Was this a purgatory or a slacker’s paradise?

If you’re starting to get any new ambitions, have yer guy think about ’em.  If you just want to socialize for other ends – planning the club trip or whatever – get into that.  And if you want to time skip, I’ll add more to this post to facilitate that…

~Previous~ 🏵️ ~Next~

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These Gay Antics

Hey, what’s the deal with the gay antics out here?  Lookit that guy up on the stage, kissin’ the other guy on the stage, and nobody says nothin’ about it like we all get it, big joke, they get the no-homo pass because they’re rocksters.  That ain’t fair.

I’m thinkin’ about the boys in Nirvana back when they were all alive, makin’ out on Sunday Night Live and whatnot.  But also about Bruce Springsteen kissin’ that one guy from his band, and didn’t some of those hairbandmans do it too?  Like Bon Chovies or David van der lee Rothe or Motley Poisons?  Why does nobody think any of them suck wieners?  That’s kinda weird.

Rap guys can’t get away with it.  Every time they wanna say something nice about gay people they gotta backpedal into the depths of hell to keep their street cred.  I feel like one of those Mobb Deep dudes had to do it.  It’s kinda interesting tho, some rap bands are cocksucker this faggot that, and others don’t use those slurs at all, like, mysteriously absent from their vocabulary.

And however hardcore that rapper is, when I notice that about them, I have to wonder, who are they being nice to?  Themselves?  Their friends and relatives?  Some of them even stay sorta vaguely respectful to women.  Can you imagine?  But they can’t make out with other rappers on stage and get a pass.  No permiso.

Gay antics tho.  Dire Straits using the f slur in Money for Nothin’.  Probably about Duran Duran, but he did go on to say Duran man gets his chicks for free.  As opposed to Dire Straits who have to pay for it?  Or do they get their dudes for free?  Reverse reclamation maneouvre?  I don’t get it.

Are these liddle old men trying to appeal to fujoshis?  Scare republicans?  Is it a homophobic joke like “wouldn’t it be funny if we were gay lol u losers”?  I remember high school jocks being on that tip, but doing very overt gay things in pursuit of that “joke” and leaving one wondering.  Or jacking it, depending on how hot you thought their homoerotic display was.  A few of those situations may have entered my “spank bank” as it were…

Rocksters explain it.  I’m at a loss.  How u do these gay shenanigans and get away with it?

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Life List: Black-Capped Chickadee

There are birds that are still, for all that’s fucked up in nature right now, doing very well for themselves.  And I have to wonder with all of them – are they doing too well for themselves?  Are there supposed to be this many black-capped chickadees, or has the presence of colonizer-styled civilization caused them to multiply beyond the numbers they should have?

Like dark-eyed juncos, black-capped chickadees are ridiculously numerous.  Then again, I’ve only been paying attention to birds since I’ve been living in Washington state.  I get the impression this could be nationwide, that there could be black-capped chickadees from coast to coast, but crimbo decorations could give one the same idea about cardinals, and those are not where I live.

Also, regarding the numbers, something I haven’t talked about yet in these articles:  Before the current woeful epoch, just how many animals were there?  What were the numbers like?  It’s easy to imagine without cars splattering bugs and larger animals everywhere they go, with less poison and plastic and pollution, with a more stable climate, there could’ve been a lot more creatures, everywhere and all the time.  When a mummer gamboled through the streets of Saxony in 1586, how many storks were on those rooftops?  Sparrows in the eaves?  How many different species of bird would an observant person be able to see every day?  In short, would it look like there are too many chickadees if there were more of everything else?

Black-capped chickadees do the famous chicka-dee-dee-dee song, which to my ears sounds more like tsickita-bee-bee-bee.  They have a lot of other vocalizations, mostly variations on tsickita, but one always captures my attention.  It sounds mournful, and it may be confirmation bias, but I feel like I’ve mostly heard it from chickadees far from a flock, alone in a tree, especially on a cold or wet day.  That call sounds like oomp-pewee.

So basically, in an AU where the first chickadees observed were all depressed, they’d be called umpewees instead.  The more u kno.

I saw a birding youtuber document one season worth of breeding by a pair of chickadees in a nest box, and boy howdy, these guys fuck.  Seems like in a good year, a couple of chickadees could spit out a hundred.  This is not as fast as mouse breeding, but it’s pretty damn prolific.  This is why small predatory animals exist.  Eat these guys up like some marshmallows.  Pop ’em like skittles.

Some animals just look like a food.  I think bushtits look more like a food than chickadees, but still… bite size.  There are different types of cuteness and small birds like this are in that Hello Kitty territory, where the idea they’d have thoughts or feelings is less easy to imagine.  Shut off your empathy; be like the mighty falcon; gobble ’em up.

Chickadees of all types are basically New World tits, so like, I once again had an excuse to say tits on an article.  They have a black-cap and chin.  You know what they look like.  Don’t play the fool.

You know, I thought I’d have a lot more to say about black-capped chickadees, in part because there are so many of them, but I can call nothing more to mind, now that it’s time.  Put out a feeder and you’ll see them.  They should look familiar.  If you’re norteamericano, they got yer ass surrounded.

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Ruining Lives for Fun and Profit

note:  my RP by comment is still going and open for two more players.  see this post.

Debt is a motherfucker.  Our society is usurious as all hell, stealing from the education system to leave people innumerate and cutting so much slack to “legitimate” businesses that they all degenerate into con jobs and pyramid schemes, abusing people’s lack of savvy to run up egregious debts on them, run them ragged for life on the debt treadmill.  It’s not sustainable; the subprime mortgage scandal was caused by lending imprudently, the idea you could keep the bullshit rolling on stone blood forever.

I myself was a victim of “legitimate” businesses selling debt on lies.  It was student debt, racked up to obscene amounts through interest I was never ever going to be able to pay off.  While Shitler and his Shitbirds have taken a wrecking ball to student loan forgiveness and income-based repayment programs, as of this moment, my own forgiveness is still safe because it was part of a court case against various for-profit schools that used misleading material to make us think employment was much more certain and would be much more well-compensated than it actually was.  I’ve got some kind of long-term deferral waiting for the forgiveness to be processed.  Thank fuck, and here’s hoping there doesn’t come an executive order to overturn that court case as part of the Arbeit Macht Frei Act of 2027, to pump up the population of debtor’s prisons.

Many other USians are not so lucky, having been all lined up to get their debts forgiven under Biden policies that were hammered by conservative assholes.  Even a fucking three year old knows that “no backsies’ is sacred.  Don’t tell us we’re getting loans forgiven and then renege.  That’s injustice, motherfuckers.  Anyway, the latest evil evil fuckshit to come from on high is that any student loans in default are being sent to collection agencies.

Have you heard of collection agencies, or are you from one of the hell countries where these things are real?  A business that is incentivized to keep you from paying as long as possible while also abusing you into paying as much as possible, created this creepy system where they make feinting attempts to notify you of the debt for a while, shots across the bow, while running up whatever they thought would be a cool interest rate.  Then they start the harassment, the repossessions, the wage garnishments.

Considering the staggering size student loan debts can run to, this is a recipe for hounding people to suicide or homelessness or other terrible situations and harms.  These motherfuckers are ghouls.  They live in golden palaces and sleep in the down of sacrificial doves, but it’s not enough.  The view from heaven only satisfies if they are looking down on eternal torment in hell.

I am bothered by this because of the certainty that my own loan forgiveness is in their sights, that they’re going to kill it the second they can come up with a way to do so.  But much more than that, I am bothered on behalf of the people who are suffering through this policy right now.  It’s like, I’d be bothered if I might get shot, but not nearly as much as seeing someone else shot in front of me.  That’s how I feel about the victims of this policy.

I had some chipper motherfucker tell me once that Biden’s loan forgiveness programs were buying votes.  Well, who makes for a better world, somebody who buys votes by making lives better or someone who buys votes by making lives end?  But this is what ameriKKKa wanted.  Torment.  Hell.  Because it’s always gonna be someone else’s suffering right?  Never you, no sirree.

It’s cool to see people show up big for protests, but I know those are the people who voted.  And all the bitches who sat it out, they’re driving by oblivious.  Get out of the way, you old hippies with your illegible handmade signs.  I need to get to my third job to toil away the rest of my life because doncha know both sides are exactly the same and things couldn’t possibly be worse under the one the nazis liked so much.

Feeling tired.  Anyway, Shitler keeps making regular people into desperate motherfuckers with nothing to lose, which is exactly the kind of people he needs to be fearing.  I’m glad the fear centers of his brain seem to have been replaced with aluminum amyloids and jelly beans.  I’m glad he won’t see it coming, because it’ll be more likely to land next time.

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