Rut City, Population: Me

I’m fried. Burned out. Toast. Beat to a pulp. Dead behind the eyes. Numb.

And I haven’t done anything physically taxing. It doesn’t make sense.

I’m suffering from knowing that I have no purpose, nothing to offer and nothing to show for my roughly four decades on this rock.

I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again: Being unemployed blows fucking donk.

It has zapped my energy, my will to create as well as my will to be out among the living. Sure, teeny, tiny freelance gigs trickle in from time to time, but that ain’t enough to put the thoughts of tri-state crime sprees out of my noggin. I listen to my friends bitch, whine and moan about their jobs, and I have to turn off all of my impulses to fucking throttle them with my she-woman strength.

There are times when I feel like this character from Game of Thrones, is hiding in the  surprisingly under-utilized section of my soul–she’s a loyal, badass who will fuck you up if you cross her.

Brienne of Tarth (courtesy of pandawhale.com)

A bit maudlin, I know, but I’m allowed. I still scroll through shitloads of job leads every day. Some I apply to, others get trashed.

Then, there are those job leads that cause me to utter aloud WHAT THE ENTIRE FUCK??

Don’t believe me? Here, check out this gem from a Houston all news-all the time-radio station.

Enjoy.

The actual requirements for the job–news editor/managing editor–were much shorter, see. And, they were typical news editor/ME duties like solid news judgment, assignment desk duties, AP Style knowledge, etc. When I read this list of “requirements” my first thought was, “Huh, yeaaaahhh…aren’t these requirements for being a well-adjusted adult?”

Not so fast.

So, as the news editor/ME, I wouldn’t be allowed to do my job–which entails being direct, sometimes demanding and expecting professionalism at all costs–but I’m not really allowed to express what I want for fear of hurting feelings or putting someone off.

I did send them a resume/cover letter combo platter and here’s a snippet of what I wrote, but nicer.

I’m a seasoned professional who is capable of working with others under stressful situations, and I expect that out of my colleagues as well. I’m tough, but fair because I realize that the news business is not always so. As for ‘evolving self-awareness’ — if you can explain what that is exactly, you’ll be able to hire whomever you choose.”

Of course, they called me.

Turns out, they have no clue about anything, and want tons of experience for roughly 9 bucks/hour and no (surprise!) relocation expenses paid even though this was advertised on a NATIONAL journo jobs website. A friend pointed out to me that the previous news editor/ME probably either got fired, or quit because he/she was doing their job, and not playing wet nurse to a bunch of fucking over-sensitive, pants-wetting, maladjusted dipshits.

Yeaaah … I’m gonna have to give you a big, fat NO.

The bigger picture here is this is what I am (and the millions of other US citizens who are unemployed) up against: These wish lists of skills put together by completely clueless hiring managers and HR departments who don’t know what they hell they’re talking about. I was recently asked to take geometry/algebra test for an editing job.

Yep, I shit you not.

I said no, then told the hiring manager that if I was going to be eliminated from consideration, is should be on a level playing field. I told her that testing me on something I haven’t done in almost 30 years is grossly unfair. She agreed and I didn’t have to take the test. I interviewed, and we’ll see if I get a call back.

Back to Houston, care to wager that they have an incredibly high turnover rate?

PS–I’ll be in NYC next week, so I’m sure I’ll have plenty to say. So, watch this space.

All Is Right With the World Again

Really, Jules? How can you say this–especially after you experienced a quick & painful hiccup in your non-existent career yesterday?

Well, here’s why.

From Rolling Stone.

Iggy Pop and the Stooges Ready New Album for April Release

‘Ready to Die’ features guitarist James Williamson, drummer Scott Asheton

Now, this makes me smile.

See, my three readers, 2013 was starting to look like yet another shitty year for McCrabass until I heard this news. I saw Iggy a long time ago in LA and it was quite the show–he was loud, crude-as-fuck and just plain out of control. It was one of the best times I’ve ever experienced standing up. I mean, I almost tossed my granny knickers at him, but was afraid he’d put them on and they’d be too big. He’s alluring in an ugly-sexy kinda way–if that makes any sense.

So, when I heard my favorite skanky, blue-eyed boy & the Stooges were releasing an album–some 40 years after the last one with James Williamson and Scott Asheton–I did a slow nod and muttered to my empty living room “Niiiice.” Yeah, very un-Iggy-esque but I gave up heroin before I even started and my leathers are being repaired.

Iggy Pop and the Stooges are ready with a new record, Ready to Die, which will mark the first time Pop has worked with guitarist James Williamson and drummer Scott Asheton on a full album since their 1973 classic Raw Power. As he’s done since the Stooges’ 2003 reunion, Mike Watt will fill in for the late Ron Asheton on bass. It’ll be Iggy and the Stooges’ first album since 2007′s The Weirdness, which was the last to feature Ron Asheton. Ready to Die is due April 30th on Fat Possum Records.

I don’t like to wish my life away, but April 30th can’t come soon enough. That’s kind of sad–I’m sliding down Crap Mountain again and I’m looking forward to an album release like I’m some sort of love-struck teenie bopper.

I need a do-over.

 

 

Natty Dreadlocks + McCrabass = Employment?

One of the amazing things about employment–mainly the people I know who have jobs–is how easy they seem to not only get jobs–but how they seem to move effortlessly from one high paying job to the next.

I guess most of these folks are deserving of these jobs and I’m happy for them (well not really), but what is glaringly obvious in this city is employers keep pulling from the same talent pool.

What creases me is these employers around these parts are not real keen on taking chances on folks who may have the drive, the will to work their asses off and the smarts to do a good job, but not the honor of having a name or an ‘in’, or comparable experience but not the exact experience.

This isn’t working for me. I find the media world in Chicago to be impenetrable, unless timing is on your side and you have a pocketful of great connections. It reminds me of the nepotism that permeates Hollywood, but with people who need to know something about all subjects, not just about making movies.

Call me crazy, but that myopic attitude doesn’t bode well for the future of media in this town.

Let’s take a gander at what has been polluting my RSS feed lately. There has been so much good stuff, but this one really caught my attention.

Man’s Hair Shaved Off And Stolen At Party, Dreadlock Thefts Rise In South Africa

Now, I understand that there are women in India who sell their beautiful, jet-black locks so that broads here in the US can have secksy long hair, but dreadlocks? I mean, aren’t hard-core dreads made out of shit, dirt (hair, natch) and other glue-like substances that cause the follicles to stick together?

Maybe it’s a ‘black thing’? I dunno. Perhaps this article from News One can explain it best, because White Girl Pearl here is at a loss.

Man’s Hair Shaved Off And Stolen At Party, Dreadlock Thefts Rise In South Africa

“Zimbabwean Mutsa Modonko experienced the epitome of a bad hair day when he was partying at a Johannesburg, South Africa, nightclub. After 10 years of growing his dreadlocks, friends at the party found him passed out with his head cleanly shaven, and according to Johannesburg’s Times Live, stealing dreadlocks is becoming a growing trend.”

Zimbabwean.. Zimbabwean.. say that word 10 times fast whilst drunk and speaking with a Cockney drawl. Then, do it again but this time in Pig Latin. It’s super fun!

“Natural hair and dreadlocks are huge business in South Africa.  The locks can be sold as hair extensions and can typically go for as much as $275, depending on the length.  As a matter of fact, the demand for the matted locks is so high that patrons often will not even question where the hair came from.”

Oh no, why would anyone want to question a product that is about to be sewn into their noggin? Hmm..this is kinda like a Brazilian waxologist who uses recycled muslin strips that are filled with a week’s worth of pubes. You’re welcome for that image, by the way.

“Hairstylist John Wushe, who owns a Johannesburg salon told Times Live, “They are becoming very popular. On a busy day we get about 10 people [wanting] to extend their hair.”

The stolen hair can be weaved on to the head of a male or female, whereas before, synthetic hair had been used for eons. The typical weaving-in process can take up to two hours and can be woven on to the head using a crochet hook or needle and thread.  A stylist can charge up to about $170 to weave in the dreadlocks.

(courtesy of BlackPlanetNext.com)

Although there appears to be numerous dreadlocks thefts, according to Johannesburg police, they have thus far received only one such report that came through last year.  Johannesburg police spokesman Captain John Maluleka told Times Live his department encourages residents to file police reports over such hair thefts, but he thinks their hesitation can be attributed to just sheer embarrassment.

In most of the cases, dreadlock thieves are zeroing in on the fairer sex, and according to Randburg hairstylist Lebo Masimong, he says, it is because women appear to be easier targets, “You are an easy target if you walk around the CBD (central business district) and your hair is loose. They don’t care about your money or fancy phone. They are only after your hair.”

What this story fails to tell us is how these thieves get the dreads–do they knock victims down then start shaving? Do they drug them then start shaving away? What kind of equipment do they use? Is there a middleman? Are they incorporated? What other bennies do they get? What are the hours? Are there promotions? Exactly what IS a promotion in this particular field?

I gotta know because I need a job and this might be a whole new thing for me.

 

Nocturnal Emissions

Insomnia sucks for the most part, but what it doesn’t suck at is getting me to gaze into the deep, dark crevasses that make up what’s left of my soul. Some nights I think of fluff — like fuzzy kittens, soap scum and sweaters made out of love, merino wool and sunshine.

Then, there are the nights when I can’t get the frightening images of acid wash jeans, people who insist on wearing PJs out in public, post-WW1 German porn and the Dave Matthews Band out of my noggin.

Tonight is no exception and here’s what’s rattling around in what’s left of my once-semi-brilliant mind.

1) When the first-time writer of a hit movie tells an interviewer that he/she just simply sat down with a “How To Write A Screenplay In One Weekend” book, and wrote that semi-literate–but funny celluloid sensation–they’re lying to you.

Here’s what really happened: The studio wanted to work with this person because they’re popular and funny. So, these clueless execs buttered them up, then asked them for an idea and maybe a rough draft of a script. Upon first the reading, the must-hire D-girl who’s fucking the junior exec, quickly learned that this particular popular person is much better at doing late-night sketch comedy. Ahem–mum’s the word, see. So, the studio then hires a team of script doctors (at about $200k a pop) et voila–hit movie!

2) While I’m on the Hollywood trip, here’s another tidbit: When an actor/actress/singer thanks their assistant in their Oscar/Golden Globes/Emmy/Grammy acceptance speech, they’re really thanking their drug dealer. True story.

3) Bulimia never, ever goes away–it just manifests itself in other forms–like the urge to dye one’s hair purple, or start a blog, or build the original Roman Empire out of unused tampons.

4) Naming your children the correct name is vital to their future. Adorning them with monikers like Brittany, Tiff’ny, Zephyr, Madison, Schylur/Skylar, or Savannah, well, they’re bound to grow up to be total assholes, and will either yank their puds for money or spend a lot of time spinning nekkid around a steel pole at a dank truckstop bar on the interstate. I can’t believe that unimaginative parents in this country feel the need to sully the awesome reputations of two of my favorite cities by naming their sub-mental spawn “Madison/Madysun” or “Savannah” because both names are “unusual.” Get over yourselves because you’re only doing your kids a disservice by bestowing them with awful names. Stick with the classics.

5) If you insist on naming one of your kids Marquis, at least have the fucking sense to pronounce it correctly–it’s “Markee” not “Markwiss.”

6) The more I think about it, the more I believe that Stalin was just misunderstood.

7) Write Yiddish and cast British. Never fails. Ever.

8) Once I deem you to be a douchebag, there’s no way to recover. It’s just best to move on and realize that me calling you a douchebag is actually a gift–a kick in the ass of sorts–to get you to fix your douchebagness. Trust me on this–I’m a damn good judge of character.

9) OJ did it.

10) I’ve said this before, but there is no such thing as a social media/content management guru. If you introduce yourself to me as a social media/content management guru–and say it with a straight face–well, you’re about to be called a word that rhymes with schmoucheschmag. Gurus can only be found in ashrams in India, by the way.

11) My god–I love peonies.

12) You know, that rug really DID pull the room together.

13) I can really see a future with this gentleman. He’s all sorts of secksy in his thong, and not to mention his pathway to adventure, which has me a-quivering by the way.

Is that a cat?

14) There’s nothing wrong with nom-nomming on chocolate cake with chocolate buttercream frosting for breakfast, lunch and dindin. But you must realize that stuffing your face with all that chocolate goodness will cause you to resemble a mutant hamhock after about a day of this diet. Never fear monkehs–that’s why god invented eating disorders.

15) Everyone should own this album.

For those of you who have difficulty reading the above image, it’s Ben Harper’s “Fight For Your Mind.” It’s haunting, sensual and beautifully produced.

One of my fave songs ever–

You’re welcome.

16) Elvis is king–Costello, not Presley. Puh-leeze–I’ve never cared for that drug-addled twat.

 

 

 

A Somber Anniversary

This week marks a frustrating and sad anniversary for me: Two years ago–January 21, 2011–was my last day at my editing gig at a trade/B2B publication here in Chicago.

First, allow me to back it up a titch and regale you about how the fun began two weeks earlier.

I arrived at work on that crappy cold-as-fuck morning, had just enough time to put my stuff down on my desk, take off my coat, and say hello to my co-workers before the Editor-in-Chief asked me to take a walk with him. I found this a bit odd since he never paid me much attention, unless it was to gripe about something, or if he needed me to order some sort of pen.

So, when we rounded the corner that separated the newsroom from sales, and into a small conference room where the resident HR drone was waiting, my stomach flip-flopped. My mouth went dry and my chest felt like it was going to resemble Kane’s in “Alien”–but with my heart bursting out & smacking both the EIC and HR right in their mugs instead of a parasite that would eventually kill the entire fucking masthead. A wry smile crossed my lips for a brief second at that thought, but it quickly vanished when I heard the following:

“Um, yeah. Julia. We’re going to lay you off–it’s nothing personal of course–we’re just eliminating your position so we can add more to the sales team.”

What happened next few minutes was a blur. I do, however, remember giving the EIC a look that would kill a planet, tightening my jaw until it ached and feeling the tears starting to build up. Sadly, the death glare didn’t land because he wouldn’t look me in the face, but he did manage to set the land speed record for waddling out of the conference room so he could alert my colleagues of my fate.

You know, to save face and look like a fucking hero.

“Gosh, we really like Julia, but tight budgets are preventing us from keeping her on. So, I know she’s looking for work, so please help her out if you can.”

My immediate boss was absent that day so when she got my tearful phonecall an hour later, needless to say, she was furious. The next couple of weeks were a blur of phonecalls to friends slash possible employers, resume prep, buckets of tears, lashing out at everyone, allowing my shocked soon-to-be-former co-workers take me out for lunches and post-work drinks, and trying my damndest to not kick both the EIC and ME in the balls. It took alll of my god-given strength to NOT throw my ass in the shitastic Chicago River when I learned that an intern would be doing my job.

Not personal, eh? Go fuck yourself.

The last couple of years hurled all sorts of puke/jiz-filled crappy crap at me. I don’t know which moments were the most fucked-in-the-head: Was it the the snow storm that hit the area about a week after I was canned? Or was it the pubic-hair freezing cold that pounded Chicago in the ass afterwards? Or, was it going out to LA to look for work and have many jobs dangled in front of me only to have them taken away just as I was making arrangements to move my life west? Maybe it was three interviews I had with a certain Chicago media outlet that always hired someone too young and inexperienced over me, only to have that person leave a few months later because the work was “too hard.” This happened three times.

It coulda been the publisher in Florida who flat-out asked me my age during a phone interview, and when I gently reminded him that what he was asking me was, gosh, ILLEGAL, he proclaimed he didn’t care. I ended the interview soon after.

Perhaps it was the approximately 500 carefully crafted resumes with the appropriate key words and phrases I sent out that were probably mocked, laughed at and tossed in digital circular files–I have no idea which one of these events have helped push me down Crap Mountain the fastest, but I do know this much–

THE LAST TWO YEARS HAVE BEEN A MAJOR PIG FUCK.

Somedays, I can’t move. I don’t leave the apartment. I read my New York Times, the New Yorker, maybe watch my stories on the tee vee, watch porn on the computer–anything to distract me from the fact that I am a miserable failure. While I am well aware that there are many in my situation–and in worse situations–I can’t worry about them. Does that make me cold & heartless? Naah, it makes me realistic because I highly doubt they give a red rat’s ass about me.

Other days, I work on my book that no one will ever read, do Bikram yoga and consider cooking meth in my kitchen. I help other friends find work, read reports and a thesis or two for a pittance. I cheer when my friends find work, and am sad for them when they lose their jobs. My happiness for their successes is genuine, but so is my anger and resentment. It’s difficult to be around friends who are successful and have jobs, so I don’t go out much. Plus, this city is expensive.

I’m thankful for my health (knock on wood), and the facts that I’m well-educated, and don’t have a mortgage or kids to worry about. I don’t want to think about where I’d be if either of those were a factor.

I felt some cold-comfort upon learning that both the EIC and ME were canned under new management. Since it’s not my style to revel in someone else’s misfortunes, my happiness immediately turned to concern because they both have families and mortgages. But then again, they’ll probably find work before I do, so fuck ‘em.

So, what am I to do? Keep getting out of bed every day. Keep on with the writing because my book is turning out to be a gem.

And most of all, not listen to those folks who tell me I can’t succeed. One of ‘those folks’ happens to be me, but that voice is getting fainter and fainter with each passing moment.

I think Madonna said it best below.

McCrabass+Porn=Faith Restored

Now, you all know that I once worked in the movie biz, correct? I ain’t shittin’ you on this tasty tidbit, monkehs. It’s all that time spent in dark, dank editing rooms with mostly self-important gasbags who wouldn’t be there if it weren’t for the casting couch or nepotism, that have helped make me into the McCrabass that I am today, and for that, you should be fucking thankful.

I was involved in the great celluloid caper for a long, long time. Most of my tenure in Hollywood was fun, but sadly, the more craptacular moments tend to be in the forefront of my memory these days. Don’t know why that is, but I’m thinking it has to do with the ancient hospital bill I found the other day –I sliced the tip of my finger off with a butt splicer while working on a film directed by Adam Rifkin.

Or maybe it was the ripping good yarn I told a friend recently about getting chewed out by a very angry lesbo broad editor from Philadelphia, who hated allll straight women–especially ones who were smarter and more LIKABLE than she ever could be –even if she had the large rod removed from her anus.

(courtesy Ebay)

I don’t know what caused me to only think of the few realllly shitty times I had working in editing. It happens from time to time in life, see.

However, earlier today, my good pal Alice, alerted me to the fact that the AVN Awards took place in Vegas the other night, so I had to check out the most clever titles from last year. Wouldn’t you know it? The titles alone have not only restored my faith in filmmaking, but in humanity as well.

Take a gander, won’t you? And if these titles don’t titillate you and warm the cockles of your heart, then you have bigger problems than I ever will.

Thanks to Gawker for this list.

Clever Title of the Year
Asphyxia Heels the World, BurningAngel/Vouyer
Brooklyn Egg Cream on the Roxxx, Seymore Butts/Pure Play
Chocolate Covered Crackers, Black Magic Pictures
Chocolate Yam Yams, Black Storm/Monarchy/Vantage
Does This Dick Make My Ass Look Big?, Vouyer Media
Look Mom, My First Black Penis, Mike Hunt/Juicy
My Wife Caught Me Assfucking Her Mother, Devil’s Film
Nice Shoes, Wanna Fuck?, Electric/Hustler
Occupy My Ass, Bobbi Starr/Evil Angel
She Plays a Mean Rusty Trombone!, Lethal Hardcore/Pulse
Show Me Your Shithole, B. Pumper/Freaky Empire
Somebody Shave Me, Zero Tolerance Entertainment
The Spit and the Speculum, Mike Adriano/Evil Angel
Subtle Fragrance of Her Private Parts, Swank/Pure Play
We Vow to Bang Black Beotches, Kelly Madison/Juicy

And, the mostest cleverest title is …

Does This Dick Make My Ass Look Big?

Hmm..dunno if I agree. Personally, I’m torn between My Wife Caught Me Assfucking Her Mother (Who hasn’t had that happen? It’s totally relatable, that’s why it strikes a chord with me), and the more high-brow The Spit and the Speculum.

Talk among yourselves about which one you like the best while I figure out how in the entire fuck I’m gonna get a press pass for the AVN Awards next year.

After 50, It’s All Patch, Patch, Patch …

I’ve been pondering lately why I am a writer slash journalist. Is it because my great-grandfather was a writer slash journalist? Is it because I love it? Is it because I’m allll about telling stories, making up characters and whatnot? Is it because I looooove digging through public records, getting irascible sources to talk to me? Is it because I adore composing FOIAs in my sleep? NOOO! It’s because I knew that someday I would compose something pithy enough to capture the attention of one Jon Erickson.

Why…yes..YES that IS the reason.

Erickson, a fellow Chicagoan who is now an Ohioan who blogs, has a birthday today–a big one too–the big 5-0.

Happy, happy to the only man over 20 who uses emoticons more than a 13-year-old girl.  Keep on keepin’ on!

Look Who Bought the Myth!

Boy oh boy did I ever! What myth do you spaketh of dearest Julia?

The myth that if you work hard, get real good edumacated and play by all the rules that you’ll get a job.

Excuse me for a minute whilst I cackle like the terribly misunderstood witch in “Bewitched Bunny”. Wait–come to think of it–this is more like it.

Sorry–it took me a while to dry my eyes and don some clean knickers. Ahem. Sometimes laughter ain’t the best medicine, and whoever said that needs to have their balls shaved with a dull, dirty razor. Then, that person needs to sit for a long, long time in a big pile of salt. Man oh man, I would be aces at torture.

Anyhoo, currently I’m staring at the dirty asshole of 21 months of unemployment. Yep. I’ve written about this before but now this sitch is getting mighty damn ridiculous. In the past 48 hours, I’ve received three tears/sobs-producing rejections. I would’ve loved to work at any of these places, but once again, I was told in so many words that I suck shit. That I’m not worthy of employment at all, and that I should just give up.

Well, I have. Stick a fork in me folks because I’m done.

 

Over 500 carefully crafted resumes and cover letters have been sent, networking and ass-kissing has been accomplished (I deserve an Oscar) and I’ve “Linked In” up the whazoo. Stories I’ve pitched are ignored or given to someone else to write. I’ve even started this extreme diet because all of the places I’ve interviewed at are inhabited by uber-thin folks. Next up: Botox and skin-lightening treatments.

I’ve learned a lot, met a lot of good people, but not enough apparently.

Meanwhile, half-wit woman hater Todd Akin doesn’t know the difference between an abortion and a D&C and people want him to help lead this country? Oh, dearest Julia, surely you gest! No one can be that thick! See, this is what happens when you let God into politics. Or, when you think you know how God would rule on such matters.

Watch:

My plans? To lay low for the rest of the year because 2012 ain’t no longer worthy of my time.

It’s been a shit-fuck-ass mess of a year. Nothing has worked out and that just boggles me wee noggin. Now, normally I’m not one to wish my life away, but as for the rest of 2012, well, I ain’t participating. This year had a chance and it blew it. Big time. It’ll be interesting to see if I even decide my vote is worth it. The current POTUS hasn’t done shit for me so why should I even bother? Or, maybe this guy has the right idea? 

So..neener neener neener, 2012. Go away. Please.

*sigh*

I miss headline writing.

(courtesy of doobybrain.com)

What a difference a year makes

On July 6, 2011, I started this blog. I had no idea how it would turn out or if it would even last more than a few posts. There was always the chance that I’d grow bored and dump it like a bad boyfriend. Hell — that could still happen, but I doubt it because this is just too damn much fun. It’s my own creation that hails from the most mysterious, silliest, contemplative parts of my soul.

With the exception of a few posts where I find inspiration in another news story or in normal everyday human behavior, I never truly know what I’m going to write about until I click on “new post” and start typing.

It’s that very moment when I feel the most creative and free. I feel fortunate to have this innate ability (some might argue with my word choice) to create and write, and I’ve learned that the more I do it, the (hopefully) better I get. To me, writing is a release, a comfort and a source of nourishment. It’s what I long to do for a living.

When I started this blog, I was unemployed and uncertain of my future. Sadly, that’s today’s theme too. It’s been 17 months since I was laid off from my job at Modern Healthcare magazine, and very little has changed. I’ve had a few, brief freelance assignments, sent out countless resumes and went on a bunch of interviews. Southern California was my home for roughly 6 months — and I long to make it my permanent home, dog willing. I do believe that will happen but it’s just a matter of when. While I love Chicago, Southern California just suits me better. There’s a comfort level I’ve never been able to achieve in Chicago — a concept that is lost on so many folks, but not on those with whom I am closely yoked.

A year moves quite fast these days. Time moves faster when you’re not working, by the way. It wasn’t unusual for me to experience a myriad of emotions within a 24-hour span. Brutal, yes, but I learned a great deal about myself, and have realized it’ll all work out — life has a way of making things just so. Sure, the path is riddled with crap and more crap, but it’s worth it all in the long run.

So, thanks for your support. I do plan on writing more political posts since we’re smack-dab in one of the biggest political pig fucks of all time. What’s happening in this presidential election season breaks my heart, makes me laugh and gives me hope.

Odd, yes, but it’s not unlike what I’ve personally experienced during the past year.