Last night, I was doomscrolling, thinking about how IDK if I can take much more of THIS. Overwhelming, endless bad news, no end in sight. No justice on the horizon, no leaders that can lead us, we can agree, I bet that it looks dreary and firey as hell. The depression resulting from KNOWING that this many people need rescued (including us) and they’re double tapping on help vehicles that might try to arrive with service that could help us sustain the wounds (especially those ones that are low-impact over stretches of interminable time, with loss after loss piling up, skeletons, remains and absolute treachery. I’ve never felt so rapable, so killable, so silencable, so female before. I’ve never understood until this moment that poor people aint shit to them. Like, “go throw the bodies in the lake, son. Nah, even the crawdads won’t want em.” I wasn’t sure before if I mattered in the scheme of powerful things, and now I see where we stand, face to fucking face with tanks. I escaped through movies a lot over the years, but escape is a (forgiveable) waste of time. Beauty can be a blinder for people. Everyone likes you when you’re pretty, so you don’t see how cruelly ugly people treat each other. Last night before I went to sleep, thank God I saw that AI or modified (in some way) video of the Pope Leo kicking Trump’s arse in the MMA fighting ring?! Man, that pulled me out of the doomscrolling zone. I watched it like 15 times. Then I fell asleep and dreamed that there was violence between a childhood friend of mine, Melissa, and someone else (also possibly Melissa, but my ex-girlfriend Jamila was an idea in this dream that I woke with). So Melissa kept attacking someone, or someone kept attacking her. At first I was laughing, I liked it. The person who got punched deserved it. Stupid mf. They were asking for it. Then Missy threw a few more punches, and it was like whoa whoa whoa, let her get up…. let her get up. But we couldn’t get away from Missy. Realizing I was staff, I tried to call for help, but goddamn if Missy kept finding us and attacking Missy again. Melissa was a best friend of mine in 1986. We were little kids and we were also “lovers?” We’d played little girl games. Now Melissa is a staunch republican and has a different name, and she’s not Pissy Missy anymore. And no one bullies her anymore. And I don’t hurt her feelings anymore. And I also can’t save her.