Up until the last week or so, I always used to say that even if I’m having a hard time, I am not ready to die. I want to see what happens next.

I no longer want to see what happens next, I see no good outcomes at all for the future of the world, not just the US.

The next time around. Sure, Jan. it’s over.

A dad point of view, while precious in delivery, doesn’t really translate very well in this scenario if you’re anything but a cis white male. The cis white men will be fine like they have been fine for thousands of years.

Millennial parental apology fantasy… oh man I really love this.

And they manage to get poor people on board by tying their policies to Jesus and Family Values. And it works like a charm and it’s so weird.

Planned obsolescence keeps us consuming.

I initially misread this as 2014 and I am actually surprised I was a bit excited. Like if the past decade was a coma dream or something, wow that would have been ideal. Ah. Anyway.

I’m looking forward to physical therapy rehab in the spring, maybe feeling good and healthy again. And then seeing Taylor Swift in Vienna in late summer. Hopefully by then, Trump is either dead or in prison. Hopefully prison first.

I grew up putting dirty dishes in the sink. They were piled up there until someone either loaded them to the dishwasher or did them by hand. This continued in to my adulthood until I moved outside the US, and it’s like something shifted. We just rinse and load the dishwasher and run it overnight. Now keeping them out in the sink seems gross to me, but I never thought about it before. Same with shoes in the house. Or using a shoehorn.

I’m sorry Sir Kevin did you say ten years? How many do you have that they don’t wear out well before then? This is alarming and/or amazing. We do this too but it’s more like every year or maaaaaybe two if we are stretching it. I’m stuck on ten years, it’s wild, I’m sorry.

Seems to be working!!

No one ever mentions to you as a young girl going through puberty that there’s another one coming in your late 20s-early 30s that will cause you to subconsciously stroke your neck/chin upwards and make smirky faces in your mirror to catch all these hateful manly hairs.

I do this and I see women at stoplights doing this all the time now. But no one clued me in to it as a preteen that it was coming, and that’s rude.