What does it mean that we are here, now, seeing what we see?
What does it mean that I am aware of the Rohingya, fleeing their lands, en masse; to know, and care, that one-third of Bangladesh is submerged; that 91 people a day die of opiate abuse?
What does it mean that corporations have gutted Puerto Rico’s finances and the island looks like NOLA during Katrina, only more widely spread, people, American citizens, again struggling against unbelievably horrible odds?
What does it mean that I made the-one-who-should-not-be-named my nigger? I did. I tweeted him, told him about the klan military man who would salute a uniform all day, but not a nigger, and I told him he was mine. Sure did and sent it to the POTUS address. I don’t bother with that real thang cuz he can block you. Did me. I have called him a nigger for a couple of days, and you know what? It does a body better than chicken soup and sitting fuming helplessly while my country is made to look an ass because of who sits at the helm.
It is a good time to sit and reflect. I need to sit and figure out why I would do such a thing. True, I was theory-testing. I do love to test a theory, almost as much as I love to knit. A Twitter friend said he reported being called a nigger by some “alt-right” types, and Twitter said none of its standards were violated. So, I said let us see if I can do what I did and suffer no repercussions as I would not be violating any standards. So far, I’m in the pipe, 5 X 5.
I have never written the WH. I have a few favorite presidents, but I don’t like playing favorites. This one, however, requires some face time with me. And I want it recorded.
Good fast to you.