Sunday Morning Navel Gazing as The World Burns

The Twitter Machine reminds me that the world is ending.  Look, I know we have a psychotic, narcissistic game show host in the White House with his small orange fingers twitching on the nuclear launch codes. I get that the endless stream of monster hurricanes that keep battering our coasts are only going to get worse, and that in a few short years those of us in Florida will be up to our asses in seawater. I realize half the country is literally on fire, and that our kids are being taught evolution is just a "theory," and that wages have been stagnant for the last 40 years, and that we're all just one cancer diagnosis away from bankruptcy because Congress is trying to take away what little healthcare coverage we have. 

I get all that. But is it too much to ask that I just be allowed to sit here for a minute with a quiet cup of coffee while I watch the squirrels tear my back yard apart? 

Really, is that asking so much? 


(By the way, have I mentioned I hate squirrels? Greedy little bastards.)

Awhile back someone on Facebook made note of the fact that I wasn't posting my epic rants anymore. They were some doozies, I'll admit, usually posted while I was shit-faced and at my bombastic best. Entertaining, I guess, but also an extension of my toxic state of mind. 

See, I was always so right about everything -- and so righteous in my rightness. As if I could somehow solve the world's problems by virtue of my wrath, if only I could state it strongly enough on Facebook or post the right scathingly witty meme on Twitter. Social media is great, don't get me wrong. I still love to snark at the absurdities I see online. But in the end, it doesn't change anything. 

And for now, it doesn't have to. I can't fix the world. It's enough that I sit here with my coffee on a quiet Sunday morning, watching the squirrels in my yard. Trying to fix myself.