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April Awakening: Day Four


Since when was another person’s love life any of my business? It’s everywhere I go. Kelly Ripa and Mark Consuelos brag about how awesome their intimate times are. Will and Jada just could not keep their hands off each other, except when they stepped outside the marriage like two healthy and in love adults. And according to the DailyMail, my own dirty swampwater rag, Amy Robach and TJ Holmes can run the NYC marathon real good because they do it, like, 400 times a day. It’s nauseating. It’s none of my business. It’s sincerely the last thing I want to hear from anybody. But I think there’s something far worse out there, and that’s broadcasting the lack of a love life, or any shred of a moral compass. As the kiddies say, the thirst is real, and if we’re not careful, it’s bound to drown us all.

I used to take a lot of photos of myself. Like a lot. And none of them were ever satisfactory to me. I never thought I photographed well, and was never satisfied with how I’d be perceived. Sometimes I’ll snap my outfit or how my body is changing, but my face never looked good. I’m also noticing as I get older, I adhere more to the feeling of photographs stealing a piece of your soul. Big reason why I deleted Instagram. I also went through my camera roll on my phone, purging a ton of photographs of myself, which I think fall comfortably under the umbrella of “thirst traps.” I wanted to appear sexy, wanted to look desirable to all the other people out there, even if I only felt okay about how I looked. It was desperation; A broadcast of something I wished I could feel behind closed doors. But it never happened. So all those photos left. Sure, they’re probably still in cyberspace, but they’re no longer physical media. That desperate version of me exists only in a once upon a time now. And I think a lot of us are, or at least have been, parched in the same way, even if we’re getting all we think we need.

Today, the former President of the United States (or perhaps the President of the Former United States?) was arraigned in a Manhattan criminal court. Thirty-four felony counts on a case twice-passed over by higher courts. And it’s like large swathes of America couldn’t help but drink it all in. They were all thirsty enough to squeeze every little bit outta Orange Man they could, and now we’ve got a Banana Republic. It’s a fruit cocktail of disaster as far as I’m concerned. But far be it from me to be spiritually quenched by all this nonsense. Many have been longing for this day, seething for it, praying it can finally fill some kind of watering hole within. But people tell on themselves with their actions, especially those forever captured on film. And if the last seven or so years are any indication, it’s clear to me much of what has made us a working society has completely dried out.

I don’t want to read stories of people lusting over Gwenyth Paltrow’s hot lawyer. I’ll pass on staged vacation photos blasted to people who don’t care. And if I ever see even a whisper of the “Hot Felon” phenomenon again, I will vomit. The thirst is real, ladies and gents, but what we’re drinking is only making us sicker. It’s poison, really. Slow acting. We want the worst for our enemies, and sometimes even for our friends. I don’t know what got us here, but I’ll be damned if I let the swell of it suck me into the vortex. As long as I’m here, the fight for what is right will never be over. I’m sure the candid snap of me is that of a woman forever looking toward the better way. The right way. Hydrated and ready for the next battle we face.

The war is far from over. Hope you’ve got a full canteen.

Words today: none yet. I published here early. I’ve got all night to finish.

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