Well, my Twitter followers are dropping like flies, since I announced my long Twitter break on Feb. 22. I was at 718 followers and am now down to 704 (woops! just checked and nope – 701…and if I block that one girl who’s totally a hooker and those 10 egghead bots, that gets me below 690). I am perfectly okay with this, because you know what? I think Twitter’s kind of dumb. At least on Facebook you can make it practically Fort Knox and only have people you actually trust and know there. You can do this as well on Twitter by going private and deleting all the bots, but the point of Twitter seems to be publicity and spreading the word, whatever the word may be or how crazy. Which is why Twitter seems to work best for celebrities and people who wish they were celebrities and/or have an over-inflated need for notoriety and recognition. Or you’re selling something, which kind of makes it the Jehovah’s Witness of social media.
People are exhausting. Really, really exhausting, y’all. I have a lot of love in me for people, and when I decide you need some of it, I give it all to you. But I can only do so much Peopling of people who have serious issues and needs, and then I need a very very long People break. I feel one coming on. Somewhere between when Spring begins and I go to Disney World and have to spend all day, for a week, surrounded by other human beings in close quarters amusement parks listening to It’s a Small World over and over. (I’m kidding – I actually kind of love that song and I can’t wait to watch Miss M go ridiculously gaga when she sees Tiana in person. I guess I’m mostly just worried about running into those two girls from Frozen and having to hear THAT SONG.)
On the positive side, I’m certainly learning quite a lot about human nature. I don’t trust people I meet online like I once did. If I meet you online AND we meet offline AND you do what you say you’re going to do AND you’re consistent, THEN I will trust you. This is where you and I are at now, Internet. I’m cool with meeting friends on you, but I got some hoops people need to jump through now (fair’s fair – I’ll jump through others’, too). Another thing I’m learning is people are what they do, not what they say. I submit the last Republican debate as Exhibit A on that. And also: if they do it once, they’ll do it again. People can and do change, but not usually. I’ve learned.
I’ve also learned to fight and if that means screaming when someone says or does something crazy, then so be it. Because I actually don’t care if that hurts their feelings, I think. It is okay to set boundaries. And when someone repeatedly violates them, it is okay to say so and say so in a really mean way if what they’ve done is completely inappropriate. It is okay to go silent on someone who is abusive. It is okay to leave and never ever come back. And if those people want to say bad things about you and tell themselves you were the issue not them, that’s fine. Meanwhile, you will be far less stressed because drama-free always is. People come into your life for a reason, and they’ll either come for a season or a lifetime, so never mix up seasonal people with lifetime expectations. You have taught me this, Internet. I don’t know whether to thank you for waking me up or bitch slap you for stealing my rose-colored glasses. Dammit, I really loved those.
At any rate. I can only do so much crazy, I can only do so much peopling. I need. a. BREAK.
I’d sort of have a complex about all this and want to crawl into a cave and raise my daughter away from other humans, except I’ve been in enough therapy for enough years to know what true dysfunction looks and feels like, and I don’t want it anywhere near me right now. I got enough of my own dysfunctions, thanks. We all have stresses, mine are not unique and neither are yours. It’s all about how you frame it, and if you want to frame it like you’re the victim, that’s perfectly fine. Have a great life.
Speaking of stresses and people exhaustion: right now, all I keep thinking (when awake with insomnia, which is about every other night now) is “Really, Trailer Park America? You honestly think the bizarre egomaniac with the orange skin and crazy comb over is THE answer. THAT’S your antidote to the black guy.” I mean, I’m pretty sure I can hear every single founding father, mother, sibling, cousin, and friend turning in their graves over this. Clearly, that thing that happened the other night, that thing that FOX “News” aired and called a Republican debate was the first sign the Zombie Apocalypse is about to begin. I didn’t watch it because crazy people are exhausting and I can only do them so much. But I heard about it from the news, my Facebook timeline, and friends in the hallways at work. And now I cannot get an image of Donald Trump’s hands and penis waving around out of my brain, two things I assure you I do NOT want in there at the moment. Hands with penises. Penis hands. And I think Ted Cruz had a booger on his mouth? I think I saw that somewhere. It doesn’t really matter what it was, actually, because my far right wing mom, who by all rights probably agrees with almost everything Ted Cruz thinks and feels, refused to vote for him on the grounds he’s too sweaty.
America! Do you understand that right now, as possibly one-half of our voting options, we have a sweaty booger man or a Mussolini with a combover and penis hands competing to be in charge of this country. This is what happens to a country that watches too much reality TV, I swear it. I wish I could time travel with this information to present it at the signing of the Declaration of Independence. We might all be speaking with a British accent still, and enjoying scones with tea around 5 each day. And bangers and mash! And Guinness. Man, life would be so much better.
At any rate, I tried. I voted for Bernie to represent Georgia as the Democratic nominee. Miss M and I showed up 15 minutes before the polls closed on Tuesday and I asked for a non-partisan ballot. The nice lady checking IDs said Georgia has no non-partisanship. (But then…why…is it a…ballot choice….never mind, duh. This is Republican Georgia and they all voted for Donald. Silly me.)
As a woman, I know I probably should have voted my vagina and gone for Hilary. I am a bad feminist, and a traitor to my gender. But I just LIKE Bernie better. He feels totally Mr. Smith Goes to Washington to me, which is exactly how I know he won’t be one of the two choices we are finally given. Washington would chew up and spit out Mr. Smith these days. And they’d do it over a power lunch, live, on C-Span.
But surely (SURELY) we are not that far gone as a country (and a species) that Hilary is going to have to get on live national television and attempt to seriously debate a megalomaniac with tiny hands. Surely (SURELY) she’s not going to have to have a conversation comparing her hands to his hands and her hoo-ha to his jolly roger. I long for the days of Sarah Palin.
Which is why, in November, when it’s Hilary vs. Donald, I totally think we should (as a nation) make the theme of American presidential erections, I mean elections, about our national genitalia. I’m not sure how I’d work that as a campaign manager for either of those people, but I’m going to think (heh) hard about it, and then I’m going to give all my strategy ideas to the person with the biggest…ego.
Ah, me. Innuendo.