Today, I heard an intelligent person say, “Trump says all the right things.”
Invisible bad kid sits in yard corner, contemplating what nobody saw him do.
Obviously, my new hobby is trying to convince a middle class, state-employed, Hindu immigrant that a WASP billionaire con artist doesn’t give a rat’s ass about her or people like her. She will never be white enough or rich enough to be spared by his jackbooted followers.
The Republican National Convention opened today in chaos and cacophony. I tried to pay attention for about a minute, but slapping your forehead has limited appeal.
Lights on, somebody home.
No. No one is home.
I’m thinking of locking my door and baking a new nominating process for both parties.
My final exam is Tuesday night and I’ve reached a sort of saturation point. I’m having trouble telling similar ASL signs apart. I’m probably in grave danger of starting fights in the wrong bars.
Wet hen does not seem particularly mad.
I’ve spent my Fourth of July studying, digging up potatoes and prodding the other chicken to leave the coop. Apparently, Other Chicken is trying to hatch an egg, which cannot happen without a rooster. That is the kind of help we do not need.
It’s drizzling tonight. I’m trying to be reasonable about taking and exam and not punishing myself for losing a couple of points here and there. There is literally nothing at stake for me. My career will not change. My work will not be affected. I am not going to get some dream job if I finished a degree. So I can relax and do my best, letting the chips fall where they may.
Sez you, lady.
Yeah. That’s going to happen.
Poor Impulse Control 