If you were teased a lot in school (as I was), you will inevitably have weird, awkward moments as an adult with the people who made your life miserable as a child. You’ll be minding your own business in the produce section at Lunds when suddenly—
“Dresden? Dresden Jones? OH MY GOD, we went to ELEMENTARY SCHOOL together! How ARE you?”
If you’re anything like me, you will, at first, have no earthly idea who this person is. Then slowly, the recognition will start to wash over you. And while this person is chattering on and on about her job, her kids and “Hey, do you still talk to what’s-her-face,” you’ll be having a swell of dark, terrible memories about the girl who pantsed you in front of the whole lunch room in 5th grade.
Of course, you have your super fantastic fantasy reaction:
“Hey. Allison. Yeah, I’m just gonna stop you there and go ahead and remind you that you’re the stank ho who ruined my life when I was 11 years old. You may be wondering, how can she remember something that happened so long ago? Well, Allison, I’ll tell ya; because just like every other fucking kid in the world, I walked into the cafeteria with the hope that I could get my goddamned pizza burger with a side of French fries and sit my fat ass down with the 3 friends I had, have a lovely fucking time and go back to my business. But no. You decided that it would be hilarious to expose my pink floral panties to the entire 5th and 6th grade classes. And why did you do this? Because you were—and likely still are—an awful fucking person. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to purchase some goddamned arugula and pablano peppers in peace and not have to take a fucking trip down memory lane with your dumb ass. Also, I hope that you have girl babies and I hope they have terrible acne and get harassed by a little bitch named Allison.”
Yes. That is a reaction you have. In your head.
In reality, you stand there with a tense half smile on your face, nodding and wrestling with yourself. “God, get over it, Dresden. She was a kid, you were a kid. Yeah but…look at her, she looks like she’s still a big bitch. Oh my God, I don’t care that you have kids and work at an insurance company. What I would like to know is, why are you talking to me?! We were never friends!!!!”
I’d like to thank Al Gore and Mark Zuckerberg for making this dilemma ten thousand times worse. Because now, not only do I risk running into these assholes at the gas station; I also have to worry about them friend requesting me.
This horrendous girl who called me every single day the summer between 5th and 6th grade to tell me how fat I was keeps. Friend. Requesting. Me. I have denied her friend requests several times but we happen to have 3 mutual Facebook friends. Every time I comment on a mutual friend’s Facebook page (which isnt often), she takes this as an invitation to try again.
There are 3 paths I can take: the path of forgiving and forgetting, the path of silence or the path of “let me just lay this out for you, honey”.
The path of forgiving and forgetting means I accept her friend request and smile through as she “likes” things that I post. I turn it all over to The Big Guy and quietly move on with my life. Let’s face it—that just ain’t gonna happen. I’d like to be the picture of emotional health but I live in the real world part time and Dresden’s World the other part of the time.
The path of silence means I just keep ignoring her friend requests and chalk her persistence up to delusion. Or maybe she’ll stop. That would be cool.
The path of “let me just lay this out for you, honey” means I send her a carefully worded email about the fact that a) we were never friends and b) you were a stank ho. I’m paraphrasing, of course.
But more to the point, have you completely forgotten that entire 3 month period? At one point, my mother called her mother and they argued about it. Apparently, this child’s mother thought it was perfectly ok that her daughter was doing this. My hand to God, if I ever have a kid who bullies other kids, there will be hell to pay.
So I choose to send her a message about why I keep denying her friend requests. I’ll be gracious. For now.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
When the zombie apocalypse happens, I hope I’m on your street.
This is how I hope it happens:
I’m taking a whimsical stroll in a part of town I never go walking in when suddenly; I happen to see a man eating a living human’s flesh like chicken.
“Holy shit!” I say. “What the hell….”
Chaos erupts. People are attacking from all sides, biting and groaning; their skin all gray and wrinkly; eyeballs milky white and void of intelligence. A woman runs screaming from her home as her undead husbands pursues, his mouth watering for her flesh (and not in a good way; that hasn’t happened in a long time, as the love died long ago). A toddler suddenly climbs off her tricycle, approaches her father and takes a large, juicy bite out of his hand. He screams and falls to the ground, twitching and gasping until, suddenly, he rises, all pale and drooly, and joins his daughter in her quest for the meat of the living.
I know what this is. It’s the motherfuckin’ zombie apocalypse.
I’ve been expecting this but what I had not planned on was this totally random stroll on a Sunday afternoon in this neighborhood I never, ever find myself in.
“Dresden!”
I hear my name shouted above the shrieks and bloody squishes and I turn to see you, so super hot, standing in the doorway of your home, waving me to safety.
I, of course, had no idea you even lived over here but I run through the sea of death-followed-by-reanimation straight into your front door. We quickly turn the locks and collapse against the door, breathless, terrified and a little bit turned on. Well. I mean, I might be….
“What the hell is happening?!” You ask me, your beautiful eyes wide with horror. You poor, muscular thing. You didn’t even have time to put a shirt on after your shower, did you? I get distracted by a little water on your chest but then snap back to reality.
“It’s the zombie apocalypse,” I say darkly.
Suddenly, there is slow and methodical pounding, accompanied by moaning at your front door.
“Don’t worry”, you say. “I have a basement that is made of steel and has steel enforced doors with super strong locks on them. There’s enough food to last 6 months, two separate bathrooms on opposite sides of very large basement, so, you know, do whatever you need to in there and I’ll never know, and a television that runs of batteries, which we have an endless supply of. Unfortunately for everyone else, there is only room enough for two people. I guess it’s you and me.”
We rush to the basement that seems to have been built for this exact situation, locking all doors. We try desperately to contact loved ones on our cell phones.
“My girlfriend…” you say with sadness. “She…she’s on vacation in Manhattan. Shopping trip. God, I hope she’s ok.”
“I’m sure she’s fine,” I say and turn on the television. Katie Couric is reporting live from the top of 30 Rockefeller Plaza in Manhattan with the header “Crisis! The Zombie Apocalypse of 2011” scrolling across the screen. Remarkably, she is still smiling as she reports that 90% of Manhattan’s population has been eaten or zombified.
“It seems,” she shouts over the sounds of screaming, helicopters and blind, wild shooting, “that the undead had a particular lust for the flesh of tourists. I have just received confirmation that all those who were visiting Manhattan from other locations have been either killed or recruited into the massive, ever-growing zombie army.” The camera cuts to a group of female zombies wandering hungrily in front of H&M, amid discarded purchases.
“That’s my girlfriend!” You point at a zombie in skinny jeans, a threadbare blousy-blouse that accentuates her perfect undead breasts and ballet flats with cascading, gorgeous zombie hair.
No!” You shout as your girlfriend attacks and feasts upon the flesh of Al Roker, who obviously drew the short straw that day.
I approach you slowly and lay a gentle hand on your bare, well sculpted arm. “I…I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
You retreat to the bathroom, slamming the door. I steel myself against the carnage unfolding in front of me and begin uncovering our resources.
You return from the bathroom, stone-faced and unfortunately having located a t-shirt. “We need to make a run for it. Head for the mall or something. Someplace safe.”
“Dude. This is the safest place on the planet. It’s a steel enforced basement. We need to stay put.”
We argue for a while and then I make us a nice dinner of roasted chicken breast, garlic whipped potatoes and a tomato salad. When night falls and we are both sleepy, it becomes painfully obvious that there is only one bed. Awkwardly, you stammer that you’ll sleep on the couch. But I awake to find myself in your arms. I scramble out of bed—what in God’s name do you think you’re doing?! You quickly explain that I was having a nightmare and you were simply trying to comfort me. I am suspicious but commence making us each a double espresso while you make me an omelet.
As the days go by, we become closer, sharing our innermost thoughts and feelings; having heated arguments over whether Goodfellas or The Departed was Scorsese’s best film; laughing as we watch Airplane! again; crying as we admit how much we both miss our families. I even listen as you tell me about your girlfriend—about the hopes and dreams you had for the two of you…the way she smiled…the fact that she listened to really horrible music but you loved her anyway. Eventually, you begin to do things like brush the hair out of my eyes. You don’t even have to ask how I want my coffee because you already know. Months have gone by and some days, we’re profoundly irritated with each other. You can be so stubborn and I’m rather bossy at times. You make me cry once or twice and beg for my forgiveness. You know that when I’m moody, it’s best to put on Heart’s Greatest Hits and let me sing for as long as I want to. I know you need your alone time, so I retreat to my bathroom, writing and listening to music (because there’s a couch in there) while you do your thing.
And then poof—we’re in love. It’s scary and exhilarating. There’s also the small matter of the fact that we may be the last two people alive. But we’re too happy to let that get us down. The television stations have been off for months but we check every morning anyway. One morning, a news anchor reports live from the ABC studios that the zombies have been eradicated! We rejoice, throwing our arms around each other. Soon, military personnel with heat seeking technology discover us in our amazing basement. Suddenly, as we’re being wheeled away on separate gurneys for thorough medical examinations, I begin to feel you slip away. Was our love real? Or was it just convenient? What happens now?
A doctor mentions to me that they’ve found a cure for the zombie affliction and some of those affected can be saved and returned to normal. It’s then that I hear you ask another doctor: “My girlfriend…she…was bitten at the start of all this….”
As they wheel me into my hospital room, I am enveloped by acceptance. I breathe deeply and tell myself that it took a goddamned zombie apocalypse for him to notice me; what did I expect? This was never real. This was never meant to last. I’ll go back to my life and he’ll go back to his. We’ll always have the basement.
I awake in the middle of the night to find you sitting next to my hospital bed, slumped over, and snoring softly. I say your name and you wake up.
“What…what are you doing here?” I whisper.
You look at me quizzically. “Where else would I be?”
And we live happily ever after, in a police state that’s been put in place under the theory that the zombie apocalypse was a terrorist attack facilitated by the media and “gotcha” journalism. But still…happy.
I’m taking a whimsical stroll in a part of town I never go walking in when suddenly; I happen to see a man eating a living human’s flesh like chicken.
“Holy shit!” I say. “What the hell….”
Chaos erupts. People are attacking from all sides, biting and groaning; their skin all gray and wrinkly; eyeballs milky white and void of intelligence. A woman runs screaming from her home as her undead husbands pursues, his mouth watering for her flesh (and not in a good way; that hasn’t happened in a long time, as the love died long ago). A toddler suddenly climbs off her tricycle, approaches her father and takes a large, juicy bite out of his hand. He screams and falls to the ground, twitching and gasping until, suddenly, he rises, all pale and drooly, and joins his daughter in her quest for the meat of the living.
I know what this is. It’s the motherfuckin’ zombie apocalypse.
I’ve been expecting this but what I had not planned on was this totally random stroll on a Sunday afternoon in this neighborhood I never, ever find myself in.
“Dresden!”
I hear my name shouted above the shrieks and bloody squishes and I turn to see you, so super hot, standing in the doorway of your home, waving me to safety.
I, of course, had no idea you even lived over here but I run through the sea of death-followed-by-reanimation straight into your front door. We quickly turn the locks and collapse against the door, breathless, terrified and a little bit turned on. Well. I mean, I might be….
“What the hell is happening?!” You ask me, your beautiful eyes wide with horror. You poor, muscular thing. You didn’t even have time to put a shirt on after your shower, did you? I get distracted by a little water on your chest but then snap back to reality.
“It’s the zombie apocalypse,” I say darkly.
Suddenly, there is slow and methodical pounding, accompanied by moaning at your front door.
“Don’t worry”, you say. “I have a basement that is made of steel and has steel enforced doors with super strong locks on them. There’s enough food to last 6 months, two separate bathrooms on opposite sides of very large basement, so, you know, do whatever you need to in there and I’ll never know, and a television that runs of batteries, which we have an endless supply of. Unfortunately for everyone else, there is only room enough for two people. I guess it’s you and me.”
We rush to the basement that seems to have been built for this exact situation, locking all doors. We try desperately to contact loved ones on our cell phones.
“My girlfriend…” you say with sadness. “She…she’s on vacation in Manhattan. Shopping trip. God, I hope she’s ok.”
“I’m sure she’s fine,” I say and turn on the television. Katie Couric is reporting live from the top of 30 Rockefeller Plaza in Manhattan with the header “Crisis! The Zombie Apocalypse of 2011” scrolling across the screen. Remarkably, she is still smiling as she reports that 90% of Manhattan’s population has been eaten or zombified.
“It seems,” she shouts over the sounds of screaming, helicopters and blind, wild shooting, “that the undead had a particular lust for the flesh of tourists. I have just received confirmation that all those who were visiting Manhattan from other locations have been either killed or recruited into the massive, ever-growing zombie army.” The camera cuts to a group of female zombies wandering hungrily in front of H&M, amid discarded purchases.
“That’s my girlfriend!” You point at a zombie in skinny jeans, a threadbare blousy-blouse that accentuates her perfect undead breasts and ballet flats with cascading, gorgeous zombie hair.
No!” You shout as your girlfriend attacks and feasts upon the flesh of Al Roker, who obviously drew the short straw that day.
I approach you slowly and lay a gentle hand on your bare, well sculpted arm. “I…I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
You retreat to the bathroom, slamming the door. I steel myself against the carnage unfolding in front of me and begin uncovering our resources.
You return from the bathroom, stone-faced and unfortunately having located a t-shirt. “We need to make a run for it. Head for the mall or something. Someplace safe.”
“Dude. This is the safest place on the planet. It’s a steel enforced basement. We need to stay put.”
We argue for a while and then I make us a nice dinner of roasted chicken breast, garlic whipped potatoes and a tomato salad. When night falls and we are both sleepy, it becomes painfully obvious that there is only one bed. Awkwardly, you stammer that you’ll sleep on the couch. But I awake to find myself in your arms. I scramble out of bed—what in God’s name do you think you’re doing?! You quickly explain that I was having a nightmare and you were simply trying to comfort me. I am suspicious but commence making us each a double espresso while you make me an omelet.
As the days go by, we become closer, sharing our innermost thoughts and feelings; having heated arguments over whether Goodfellas or The Departed was Scorsese’s best film; laughing as we watch Airplane! again; crying as we admit how much we both miss our families. I even listen as you tell me about your girlfriend—about the hopes and dreams you had for the two of you…the way she smiled…the fact that she listened to really horrible music but you loved her anyway. Eventually, you begin to do things like brush the hair out of my eyes. You don’t even have to ask how I want my coffee because you already know. Months have gone by and some days, we’re profoundly irritated with each other. You can be so stubborn and I’m rather bossy at times. You make me cry once or twice and beg for my forgiveness. You know that when I’m moody, it’s best to put on Heart’s Greatest Hits and let me sing for as long as I want to. I know you need your alone time, so I retreat to my bathroom, writing and listening to music (because there’s a couch in there) while you do your thing.
And then poof—we’re in love. It’s scary and exhilarating. There’s also the small matter of the fact that we may be the last two people alive. But we’re too happy to let that get us down. The television stations have been off for months but we check every morning anyway. One morning, a news anchor reports live from the ABC studios that the zombies have been eradicated! We rejoice, throwing our arms around each other. Soon, military personnel with heat seeking technology discover us in our amazing basement. Suddenly, as we’re being wheeled away on separate gurneys for thorough medical examinations, I begin to feel you slip away. Was our love real? Or was it just convenient? What happens now?
A doctor mentions to me that they’ve found a cure for the zombie affliction and some of those affected can be saved and returned to normal. It’s then that I hear you ask another doctor: “My girlfriend…she…was bitten at the start of all this….”
As they wheel me into my hospital room, I am enveloped by acceptance. I breathe deeply and tell myself that it took a goddamned zombie apocalypse for him to notice me; what did I expect? This was never real. This was never meant to last. I’ll go back to my life and he’ll go back to his. We’ll always have the basement.
I awake in the middle of the night to find you sitting next to my hospital bed, slumped over, and snoring softly. I say your name and you wake up.
“What…what are you doing here?” I whisper.
You look at me quizzically. “Where else would I be?”
And we live happily ever after, in a police state that’s been put in place under the theory that the zombie apocalypse was a terrorist attack facilitated by the media and “gotcha” journalism. But still…happy.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
If we find a big saw, we can totally get rid of Florida.
A while back, I became aware of a concept called unintended consequences. This is what happens when you’re like, “Oh, I have this great idea for something that will totally better this community.” So you gather a task force, have a lot of meetings, draft and re-draft proposals, put on a nice blouse and go before a panel and sell your great idea. You give them all the reasons in the world why this is going to kick ass and they really want to go to lunch, so they’re like, “Yep, sounds great.” So you press the play button and stand there, aghast, as the shit hits the fan.
“But…we wanted to help people, not unleash the four horsemen of the apocalypse.”
The clearest modern day example of this is abstinence only education.
“I have an idea. See, I’m pretty sure kids are having sex because they don’t realize they’ll go straight to hell if they do. So I propose we institute this thing I like to call abstinence-only sex education. I mean, don’t even give them an option. If we take away all knowledge about a subject, they won’t know what to do…so they won’t do anything. Right?”
The point was to scare the living shit out of teenagers by telling them that pre-marital sex only had two outcomes: a scorching, scabby descent into the pits of sexually transmitted infection, or God would strap a screaming, snotting, pooping little person to your hip and life, as you know it, would become infinitely worse than it already is.
That’s it. Nothing else will happen. So just don’t do it.
Now, if I had been in the room, I would have said, “Are you out of your fucking minds?!” Which would have translated into, “I have some concerns. But first I’d like to ask how long this meeting is scheduled for because I’m about to blow this fucker up.” There were plenty of people who rallied against this terrible idea but George W. had a hard on for it and declared it so: all sex education in our schools must be abstinence-only.
So here’s what happened: incidents of STIs and teen pregnancy skyrocketed. Teen pregnancy became such a huge industry that MTV got in on it. Ancient, sleeping sexually transmitted infections came roaring back to life. Seriously, syphilis? I would have been less astounded if Jesus had been a surprise presenter at the Emmys. I worked in STI education for many years and I was sitting in rooms, going, “Syphilis? Am I even here right now?”
Unfortunately, humans have a very high learning curve. And also, this very dangerous group of conservative weirdos has got a whole bunch of us by the balls. So here we go again.
Florida Governor Rick Scott has signed a law that will require all adults applying for Temporary Assistance for Needy Families to submit to a drug test. The law takes effect July 1st. Scott defends the law, saying this will hold people accountable, the money will get to the people who really need it, we shouldn’t be subsidizing people’s drug habits, blah blah blah.
Now, I know what you’re thinking…it’s Florida; they know not what they do. True, the heat does have an impact on one’s ability to think clearly. You may also be thinking, “Gee Dresden, I think that’s totally fair. If you’re going to get a check from the government, I think we need to make sure that you’re not spending it on the meth or the heroin.” But let me tell you why this shit is seriously flawed.
1. Until this country stops feeding damaging, long standing stereotypes, nothing will ever change. Nothing. Imagine, for a minute, that you found yourself in a position where you needed financial aid for your family. To come to this realization is already difficult; it’s embarrassing to say, “I can’t support my family and I need help.” THEN you have to go apply for help at a stuffy, over crowded government office with often unhelpful employees. The person on the other side of the counter is being told to assume you’re a drug addict who intends to let their children starve and smoke all the government’s money all up. This is a fantastic way to treat people struggling with poverty issues. Fantastic.
2. The government is the #1 offender right now when it comes to mismanaging money. I mean, come on. We’re billions and trillions of dollars in debt. The people bailed out the government and now that folks have lost jobs, the government is going to start accusing the people of mismanaging money? The government is going to accuse the people of mismanaging money. Sit with that like a fart in a car for a minute. Smells like shit, doesn’t it?
3. Here are the unintended consequences:
a. Increased violent crime, including murder. An addict will find a way to get drugs, with or without the government’s help. This includes, but is not limited to, robbery, mugging, prostitution, car jacking, etc. Drug related murder is already a thing; if we create more obstacles for desperate people in desperate situations, there will almost surely be an increase in drug related murders.
b. Increased unwanted baby having. Guess how you can get money from the government? By getting knocked up. A giant tax return because I have kids? Shit, it’s even crossed my mind (to be fair, I was drinking at the time). This will result in….
c. More people needing government assistance. As well as….
d. Increased drug and alcohol addition.
e. A whole bunch of other shit we haven't even thought of yet.
But, hey, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe this will go off quietly and no one but the ACLU (and me, clearly) will get upset about it. There will definitely be recipients who will gladly pee into a cup in order to get their check. But I think what we forget over and over again is how these laws impact people. People, not money.
These are human beings we’re talking about. Drug addicts are human beings. Everyone is up in arms about the way other governments treat their people. We protest and donate and buy t-shirts; Oprah and Madonna build schools in other countries. All this does is take focus off what is happening in our own country. Arizona, Florida, Wisconsin…the refusal to tax the wealthiest 2% of the population because why? WHY? We’ve let money trump (heh) human beings and it’s only going to get worse. In the past few years, this conservative, fascist agenda has been turned way, way up. And the people who believe in this rhetoric are going to be very surprised when the shit rolls downhill and they discover that the people they followed blindly don’t give a damn whether they live or die.
“But…we wanted to help people, not unleash the four horsemen of the apocalypse.”
The clearest modern day example of this is abstinence only education.
“I have an idea. See, I’m pretty sure kids are having sex because they don’t realize they’ll go straight to hell if they do. So I propose we institute this thing I like to call abstinence-only sex education. I mean, don’t even give them an option. If we take away all knowledge about a subject, they won’t know what to do…so they won’t do anything. Right?”
The point was to scare the living shit out of teenagers by telling them that pre-marital sex only had two outcomes: a scorching, scabby descent into the pits of sexually transmitted infection, or God would strap a screaming, snotting, pooping little person to your hip and life, as you know it, would become infinitely worse than it already is.
That’s it. Nothing else will happen. So just don’t do it.
Now, if I had been in the room, I would have said, “Are you out of your fucking minds?!” Which would have translated into, “I have some concerns. But first I’d like to ask how long this meeting is scheduled for because I’m about to blow this fucker up.” There were plenty of people who rallied against this terrible idea but George W. had a hard on for it and declared it so: all sex education in our schools must be abstinence-only.
So here’s what happened: incidents of STIs and teen pregnancy skyrocketed. Teen pregnancy became such a huge industry that MTV got in on it. Ancient, sleeping sexually transmitted infections came roaring back to life. Seriously, syphilis? I would have been less astounded if Jesus had been a surprise presenter at the Emmys. I worked in STI education for many years and I was sitting in rooms, going, “Syphilis? Am I even here right now?”
Unfortunately, humans have a very high learning curve. And also, this very dangerous group of conservative weirdos has got a whole bunch of us by the balls. So here we go again.
Florida Governor Rick Scott has signed a law that will require all adults applying for Temporary Assistance for Needy Families to submit to a drug test. The law takes effect July 1st. Scott defends the law, saying this will hold people accountable, the money will get to the people who really need it, we shouldn’t be subsidizing people’s drug habits, blah blah blah.
Now, I know what you’re thinking…it’s Florida; they know not what they do. True, the heat does have an impact on one’s ability to think clearly. You may also be thinking, “Gee Dresden, I think that’s totally fair. If you’re going to get a check from the government, I think we need to make sure that you’re not spending it on the meth or the heroin.” But let me tell you why this shit is seriously flawed.
1. Until this country stops feeding damaging, long standing stereotypes, nothing will ever change. Nothing. Imagine, for a minute, that you found yourself in a position where you needed financial aid for your family. To come to this realization is already difficult; it’s embarrassing to say, “I can’t support my family and I need help.” THEN you have to go apply for help at a stuffy, over crowded government office with often unhelpful employees. The person on the other side of the counter is being told to assume you’re a drug addict who intends to let their children starve and smoke all the government’s money all up. This is a fantastic way to treat people struggling with poverty issues. Fantastic.
2. The government is the #1 offender right now when it comes to mismanaging money. I mean, come on. We’re billions and trillions of dollars in debt. The people bailed out the government and now that folks have lost jobs, the government is going to start accusing the people of mismanaging money? The government is going to accuse the people of mismanaging money. Sit with that like a fart in a car for a minute. Smells like shit, doesn’t it?
3. Here are the unintended consequences:
a. Increased violent crime, including murder. An addict will find a way to get drugs, with or without the government’s help. This includes, but is not limited to, robbery, mugging, prostitution, car jacking, etc. Drug related murder is already a thing; if we create more obstacles for desperate people in desperate situations, there will almost surely be an increase in drug related murders.
b. Increased unwanted baby having. Guess how you can get money from the government? By getting knocked up. A giant tax return because I have kids? Shit, it’s even crossed my mind (to be fair, I was drinking at the time). This will result in….
c. More people needing government assistance. As well as….
d. Increased drug and alcohol addition.
e. A whole bunch of other shit we haven't even thought of yet.
But, hey, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe this will go off quietly and no one but the ACLU (and me, clearly) will get upset about it. There will definitely be recipients who will gladly pee into a cup in order to get their check. But I think what we forget over and over again is how these laws impact people. People, not money.
These are human beings we’re talking about. Drug addicts are human beings. Everyone is up in arms about the way other governments treat their people. We protest and donate and buy t-shirts; Oprah and Madonna build schools in other countries. All this does is take focus off what is happening in our own country. Arizona, Florida, Wisconsin…the refusal to tax the wealthiest 2% of the population because why? WHY? We’ve let money trump (heh) human beings and it’s only going to get worse. In the past few years, this conservative, fascist agenda has been turned way, way up. And the people who believe in this rhetoric are going to be very surprised when the shit rolls downhill and they discover that the people they followed blindly don’t give a damn whether they live or die.
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