I Believe… [Manufactured Happiness]
...that happiness isn’t found, it’s manufactured—like bootleg mixtapes in the back of a Pontiac in 1985, hissing but priceless.
A Letter from Uncle Sam
I’m the guy with the white hair and beard who dresses like he’s on his way to a Trump Rally.
Loving Your Country is Like Loving Your Child
I love my daughter more than anything. I am devoted to her. I would die to defend her.
But that doesn’t mean I defend or justify every single thing she does. When she tries to claw her mother’s eyes out because she hasn’t peeled a banana fast enough, I let her know that that shit is not acceptable. My love for her motivates me to help her not be an asshole. I want her to succeed at being a worthwhile person. I want her to realize her full potential. Which I’ll again briefly mention is enormous, probably greater than your kids’, if you have them.
This brings me to love of country; patriotism.
Notes from the Post-it Wall — Week of May 28, 2017
• When I see an American flag as a decal on a pick-up truck window or a bald eagle presented as frightful and violent instead of regal on a decal, hat, t-shirt, etc., I get a little nervous...
Being an escort for me was like being a scrapbooker on Etsy for most other single moms trying to pick up some extra money. The only difference was that I could make a few thousand bucks for one hour of potential discomfort versus making a few hundred for several hours of suffering through handmade clip art. I’m a pretty open-minded person, but I cannot for one second believe that there is any joy in being hunched over a desk, cutting and pasting other people’s memories together. It seems so lonely and juvenile.