I don't want to write about the election, my disappointment, or how I feel ashamed of our country. Unnecessary. Really, USA? Really? I acknowledge that people make mistakes. Fuck, I make mistakes all the time. My math is terrible, I can be hella judgmental at times, and I'm a lazy bitch. But this is different. The simple statement we made by electing him and thus, in a sense, validating his views is a colossal mistake on it's own. It's embarrassing. For anyone who wants to move, I feel you. Because on top of this, there is no way to predict how we will pay for it in the next four years. Worse, this mistake was made by the whole country. Actually, no. I'm at least glad that I can count myself as part of the 6.8 million who voted for Hillary.
As devastating as Trump's win has been, I'm finding hope in those with the courage to voice their dissension, from celebrities to coworkers to friends and family. Yes, it's done. He won. He will be our president in January. But we don't have to be happy about it. We don't have to make it easy for him. And as Americans, it's our right to question. To openly show dissent. To say, "Fuck that shit."
So that's what I'm doing. And I don't care who knows. Sorry Mom. Sorry Dad. You taught me to think for myself, so you can't complain when my opinion is opposite your own.
Okay. I do feel better, but enough. I've been thinking about this too much and I refuse to dwell on things that make me unhappy.
I don't want to write about my writing. Not much progress there. Too much going on. Just getting through the day is struggle enough.
I don't want to talk about music. Or do I? It just doesn't seem important right now, though I will say this: Vessel, by Twenty One Pilots is just as good or better an album than Blurryface. I especially like "Trees," "Screen," and "Migraine." And "Ode to Sleep." And "Fake You Out." Listening to this (to try to pick a few favorites) is literally changing my outlook on this day from a negative to a positive. And it's fucking Sunday.
Try it. You'll like it.
Not to mention I want to dance, and people, I can't dance. Correction: physically, I can, but for the love of God, I shouldn't. It's not quite as bad as Elaine Benes on Seinfeld, but it's close. It wasn't always that way. Or was it? In sixth grade, my friend Meggen and I started a dance club (we put up signs around our neighborhood) and spent hours in her front yard dancing to MC Hammer and Vanilla Ice. We were experts at the Roger Rabbit, that much I am certain of. And I used to know the moves to Electric Slide, as robotic and unimaginative as they are. Fortunately or unfortunately, all that overflowing rhythm and coordination has long since disappeared. I'll blame adulting. It has a way of doing that to a person. That's my excuse, anyway.
I still dance. But only if I'm moved. And no one is watching.
There's plenty of other things I don't want to talk about, but I'll save those for next time.
J. L. Dodd
Excerpt from "Migraine"
I-I-I I've got a migraine
And my pain will range from up, down, and sideways
Thank God it's Friday cause Fridays will always be better than Sundays
'Cause Sundays are my suicide days
I don't know why they always seem so dismal
Thunderstorms, clouds, snow and a slight drizzle
Whether it's the weather or the ledges by my bed
Sometimes death seems better than the migraine in my head
Let it be said what the headache represents
It's me defending in suspense
It's me suspended in a defenseless test
Being tested by a ruthless examiner
That's represented best by my depressing thoughts
I do not have writer's block my writer just hates the clock
It will not let me sleep I guess I'll sleep when I'm dead
And sometimes death seems better than the migraine in my head
Links:
https://play.google.com/music/preview/Tdec4xcwu3coc7bivoc24jniduy?lyrics=1&utm_source=google&utm_medium=search&utm_campaign=lyrics&pcampaignid=kp-lyrics
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