Help Danny Save The World

How it feels to be BPD for a few seconds

Disclaimer.

Yes, Another Disclaimer

How to read what I write: what is it anyway?

I will make this short. I hope you are tired of reading my work because you really have other activities you need to take care of but every time I post something you simply have to take it in, right? Shh!

Basically, if you follow this simple rule you will get the most out of my writing. Hopefully, you already get something, but this should help you soak up even more. 

Sometimes, most times, occasionally, and always without any exceptions except for Fridays, the second and sixth Thursday of every other month if you start your year with June like I do, or the first and fourths Monday that comes right before Thanksgiving, but not if it is an odd numbered leap year. Also, depending on the stage of the moon and if the summer solstice falls on a Wednessday then ignore this, and don't if it doesn't after you flip two coins nine times and the outcome is heads-tails, tails-tails, tails-heads, heads-tails, heads- heads, tails- heads, heads- heads, heads- heads, tails-heads, of course. Rarely, on some business days before 9am and after 5pm during daylight savings time (Arizona please ignore and go fuck yourself) there can, and will be the opposite of what I am about to state according to the Farmer's Almanac but only if you translate it into Italian as spoken by a Scottish girl with Italian parents (haggis marinara anyone?).

That being said, read everything as if it is fiction. Everything here is fiction.

Everything here is fiction.

psst. This is not real. This never happened. I am making this up and I am not even me. Just a happy black woman in her seventies. My favorite food is Goulash. My foot size is 41/2 unless there is a storm coming, or if I am in elevation higher than 7,000ft. I was raised in Lebanon, wait for it, Tennessee. Every year on my birthday,  April 7 from 6am to 10:37pm, I play AC/DC's Hells Bells on my Oboe for my 498 grandchildren. I was married 56 times, and my vagina has the capacity of an industrial washing machine and has been used as such twice this year.

But sometimes...

Yep. I am a 900-year-old time traveler who is trying to figure out what the hell is so special about her--girlfriendish thing.

He is an idiot, but he is my idiot. You can think of me as the Obi Wan, of this blog, but I don't die. Well, okay. Yeah. I know, but you know what, You fucking know what I mean too. Stop it. Because I am not the Yoda of this blog. I don't know because I am not green? Good enough for you?

get it yet?

RECAP:

In order to fully get the meaning of the contents of this blog one should read all entries as if they are purely fictional. That way the reader will not forget about literary techniques. There is a whole lotta metaphor up in here, bitches. And allusion up the ass, yep my NWord!! 

Wait!What did you say, young man?   

Momma, I'm sorry, I just--hey no stop not the um a ah no quit I did not mean it I take it back--bitch stop hitting me! I am gonna drop kick that plastic hip across the gym!

A shot rings out. Echoing through the empty high school. Then two more in rapid succession, followed my the words "and what? You said what? to who?", and the gun fell to the ground in the style of a mike drop, "who's  a bitch now? dumb little nigger calling his grandma a bitch. Come here kitty, where is your buddy at? Off with that trouble making ho he be wasting his time with? Nice young man but ain't he a fool? He ain't gonna make it to forty. Right Kitty?"
"Meow meow he is 900 meow"

For Real, Honestly

I do know, even though it never seems like I do, that all of this, my life/world, is mine. All of my problems are mine. No one owes me anything. The world does not owe me anything. (well two people owe me quite a lot but still) Every aspect of my being which is negative is my doing, my fault, and it is only my actions that can resolve the issues I constantly complain about. I have to solve my problems, live with them, or give up. I don't have to stop mentioning them, and I think I do that because I know how unattractive it is and I really don't want anyone in my life right now. I am not equipped to be a good friend to anyone. I would like to be, but it is going to take some time and a truckload of hard work.

I think of myself as a child, and I remember being this little boy who was so sad, lonely, depressed, awkward, ugly, out of place, and just not right. What got me through those time was day dreaming. I would image what my life would be like in twenty years. I would have my independence. I could do anything I wanted to, and I would be happy. All I had to do was wait. Time was going to take care of me. I was wrong and it is hard. I never thought when I was a boy, that I would  be worse. I let down that boy.

The same feeling happened when I quit drinking. I was convinced that my drinking was my only problem. My boyhood naivety took hold of me and I said to myself, "once I get sober everything will fall into place and I will be happy,". I was wrong, again. Nothing fell into place, my problems did not go away, and I am certainly not happy. Instead, I discovered all of these emotions, feelings, that I did not even know I had. I was so drunk for such a long period of time (twenty years)that I never really got to know myself sober. I had no idea what to do with my new sober feelings. The slightest thing sets me off. I get angry very easily. As a drunk nothing bothered me unless I was blacked out, but then I , of course, don't remember feeling anything. Odd stuff would make me weep. Like if someone said the name 'Barry Gordy' I would immediately burst into tears. Sitting in a movie theater alone, right after the trailers end and right before the movie starts fills me with a fear I can only describe as being attacked by a shark with my hands cuffed behind the back. That moment is the scariest moment I can imagine. Why? I have no idea. Thinking about it does not scare me, but if I am there I have to run out of the theater before I start screaming. Crossing the street was hard for me for a while. Right after I got sober when I would cross the street I would be overcome with the urge to jump on the hoods of cars at red lights. It was incredibly difficult for me to restrain myself. Driving was bad too. Like Christopher Walken's character in Annie Hall, I had to fight with everything in me to not swerve head-on into oncoming traffic. I made myself sit on my hands and steer with my knees to avoid this. This one is still an issue, but if I make eye contact while talking to a stranger, or someone I just met, my arms tingle, my stomach clenches, and I repeat to myself "don't don't don't don't" with such force that my tongue usually gets cut on my clenched teeth "don't don't punch him in the face if you make eye contact you have to punch him in the face so don't don't don't don't". I avoid, all together, conversations with strangers, and if I get caught in one I immediately look for a place to sit so I can sit on my hands.

I am not joking

I have also, never mentioned any of this stuff before (except to my shrink who I no longer visit). It does not strike me as odd because once it starting happening I created a mantra which I would chant silently and constantly(and I mean constantly like first thing in the morning last thing at night).

mr. mollohan it is no big deal absolutely and with more frequency than you can imagine everyone does this mr. mollohan it is no big deal absolutely and with more frequency than you can imagine everyone does this mr. mollohan it is no big deal absolutely and with more frequency than you can imaging everyone does this mr. mollohan

or

hey, you, I promise this is normal, hey, you, I promise this is normal, hey, you, I promise this is normal, hey you, I promise this is normal, hey, you, I promise this is normal, hey, you , I promise this is normal and there is nothing wrong with you because you are normal 

I also became afraid to look into mirrors. I was afraid that what I would see would be a little boy around 6 or 7. But then I would have to find a mirror to look at in order to convince myself that I was a full grown man and not a 6-year-old boy.


Oh yeah, none of these things happen when I have my camera in my hands. I am absolute, perfectly calm, in control, confident, resolute, and I am strong. With my camera, I am the best me I can be and no matter the day I have had, the trouble I am in, the storm that is inevitably going to crash upon my shore, I am ready with a clear mind to take "it" on, head on.

• without my camera, I gasp for air, jump, frightened by my shadow. I am the 7-year-old bedwetter. the boy with velcro shoes because he has heard that laces are too dangerous.Ii hide around the corner when a microwave is in use. without my camera i need a Dorothy i don't have, the yellow brick road is nowhere in sight, the wizard is nine million feet tall, that witch is going to get me and all monkeys can fly, and i, oh boy, and i do not have my courage •

more garbage for you, my non-reader who doesn't exist, to not read or if you do by some miracle, well you won't get it anyway

Blah, blah, blah, I have started journal entries just like this for over twenty years,

"you are not going to understand what I am talking about"

Well, you are not. You don't understand much of what I say, feel, dream, want, need, this, that and fart, shit, balls...

"Oh, he's whining, again."

No, I am stating facts in a way that is negative and annoying. Whining is different. Whining is done with weakness and it is normally about something that is of light importance. Well, what I am about to get to is important. In my world it is. Maybe, that is what bothers me, and maybe this will help you understand a bit. You see, I get worked up because no one understands why these things are so important to me. I know I sound like a child when I talk about the importance of me being a photographer. It sounds like a boy going on and on about how he must make it to the NBA, NFL or  onto SNL. I am this thing I want, though. I am more than good enough. For the past sixteen years, I have never been put in the position to do the kind of work that a person with my talent should be doing. No work has been handed to me and most of the subjects are not that interesting, but I fucking make them. Do you know how easy it would be for me to get uncanny images from Afganistan, the Ukraine, Thailand, India, Native tribes anywhere, or hell, anywhere where I could say "I am Danny, I am with blah do da magazine, and I am a photographer, I will be here for, well, as long as I need to be in order to get great images, okay?", that would be like something that is very easy for even a person of low intelligence and limited motor functions to achievre. Fuck you, I do street work in Las Vegas when I am not too tired and pissed off from working a menial 10 buck an hour shit show. When I have my camera (when it is not in a pawn shop like it is now) my nights are normally like this, "I could walk around and take photos, I can't afford bus fair so I will have to stay around a three-mile radius, or I could kill myself. Tonight could be the big night. I could end it all now, or I could hope with my camera in hand."
I take the walk, and sometimes I get great shots. I make them. I find them. I catch them. I find beauty here. I don't live in NYC, or Paris, or anywhere that is "beautiful". There as no Las Vegas Street photographers because it is fucking hard.
Think about what I could do if I could afford to travel? Think about what I could do If I HAD MY GEAR OR,

oh yeah, what this was supposed to be about

Why I must have a Leica
Yes, back to what you can't understand.
I do, though. I need a leica digital M. I have to get one as soon as possible. Like so many other aspects of my life, I have to do this which is impossible. I most likely will not get a Leica, just like I won't take photos for a living. I won't travel. I won't be thought of a great, or even a photographer by anyone ever. I will be a guy who is poor, unhappy, and alone. I will probably kill myself. Not anytime soon, but if my life is like this in twenty years, yes, I will most likely off myself. That is not be being sad. Me writing about how I am going to buy a 7k camera not just at some point but soon, Is fucking SAD. It is delusional and that is not even one of the symptoms of my particular mental illness. Oh, the suicide is but not the delusion that I am going to achieve the impossible.
Still, for my work to be the best it can, for me to work the way I need to, for me to get back to the feeling I used to have when shooting film. For me to feel alive, I do need a Leica M. I wish you could understand what that camera would do to me. I would change me. I would give me a reason.
Is it strange that I need a reason to live? I also wish you could step into my skin for a moment. I wish you could feel what it is like to be me, just for a day. You would not say I am whining. You would not say I am feeling sorry for myself. You would grab me and say "I am sorry, I had no idea". I know this because I have felt normal. I have been happy. What I am now, well, it's hard to say. Suicide is not something I would ever do but if I was that kind of person, the way I feel right now is like dying. Not sometimes, but all the time. Right now, in an hour, in five minutes, and when I wake up tomorrow. Most of the time I have a feeling that the darkness will stop. It usually comes it waves, but it has never felt like this. I am not blaming anything, but it started when Jenn died and then got worse when my Dad died, and now worse that I don't have my camera anymore. I don't see any light. I have to take photos. I need to get a Leica. If I don't, the 'me' I know is going to go away. I won't come back. Again, I am not saying that I am going to kill  myself because I am not going to do that, but I won't be the same ever again unless I make things happen. That is the important phrase

unless I make things happen

for I need people to know that I am not making excuses and I am not feeling sorry for myself. I know that my life is my responsibility and that I am the only one who can initiate the proper change. It is also extremely fair for me to bitch about this. I need a Leica. I would use one if I had one. I would use it to death. There are rich fucking hobbyist retards who have no idea how to compose an image, who take photos of nothing worth a dick fart, who think of Leica as a fashion accessory, and they have the newest latest greatest neatest with every lens on the planet and don't they all look nice in this huge glass case I had made just to hold my collection of Leica's. Yeah, those people should die. Any of those people could afford to buy me a Leica outfit and pay me a wage to work as their personal photographer and in a week I would make more great images than they or their entire lineage would/could ever take in a million years. Those walking dream stealers could change my life for the better forever with what would be to them only change. As in pocket change.
And damn it I know, I know, that if I was a wealthy person I would make this world better by helping people on an individual basis.but I am poor. I have nothing. There are people whom I know who could easily help me. They could write a check, not blink an eye, never miss a meal because of what they just gave me but no. They have more on their finger right now than I would need to make it through 2020 comfortably (with a Leica). What use does that ring, fuck, what does it do? With a Leica, I could help nonprofits raise money. I could save lives! But your diamond, on your finger, is more important than the lives of people who you walk past every day. Yes, if someone shot you in the face to take that off of your hand I would be sad, but I get it.

I have thought about crime. I can't hurt people, but I could justify stealing. I have thought about robbing a bank. I would get caught. I am shit at getting away with stuff. I can't even, I can't, I can't do anything but this. I work, yes, and I work as much as possible, but it doesn't do anything. Neither does this. It makes me feel better for a bit. It adds some light to my darkness, but it doesn't help. Especially being that once I finish the last word of this I will fall to the ground in a puddle and weep like a baby.

bye.

A New Poem

A Poem Defined and Redefined

(sort of)

poem |ˈpōəmpōm| noun                              what I write

a piece of writing that partakes of the nature of                                           a piece of writing that is speech but does not conform

both speech and song that is nearly always                                                to any predetermined structure. Using literary devices

rhythmical, usually metaphorical, and often                                             and free association to convey feelings, emotion and to

exhibits such formal elements as meter,                                                      better tell a story as experienced by a nut job.

rhyme, and stanzaic structure.

So, do I write poetry? Not if you are a college professor, but if you are a 16-year-old girl who shops at Hot Topic, then yes, I write poetry. I have been a poet for over 30 years and I have hundreds of notebooks full of poems in a range of styles. This, though, is an introduction to my new style of poetry. 

The Danny Mollohan Modern Poem

an example:

The Story of Apple's and Bee's

 I'm never happy. You can check my notes from '92 to now. And on, I am sure. 

Those days were dark ones, but now my eyes have adjusted; dimness feels like home. A candle for my sunshine and anything less than death can almost cheer me up. I laugh when all is just "fucked". That seems simple and quaint as a concept. 

You'll have to try harder for a punch in the face won't cut it. You could stab me in the neck, toss me a grenade, or hit me with a semi truck (18 wheels). So, I'm so sorry, sorry you can not really hurt me, I guess? Not that I am tough, it's just that my skin is rough. Over time I have taken too much. Google "callous". My eyes have been blackened, nose flattened, arms snapped in half, twenty-eight daggers in my back, briars in my face, thorns in this side and that, bricks have made pancakes out of toes (this little piggy went splat), shins bashed by batons, and still not a sting. Bring, bring, bring, bring on more pain, pain, pain or pain. I am curious. You are furious that those powerful hands can't break the smile on my face.

But the smiles are not real, and they never were. Emotions are background noise; wind chimes on the front porch. 

I wait for a letter. 

One that reads, "It is time to say 'goodbye'," and who would I say those words to? No one comes to mind.

Maybe if my toys were of mankind?

I spend most of my days 

stuck in dreams 

and playing this charade 

is meaningless. 

Call it life or call it dice --live, don't, or snake-eyes. 

Worry ages my face. I have yet to age a day since 1995 while I waited to say 'good-bye' to a familiar name/face. The last time those words really hurt like a bee sting. My heartache was premature but she started the rock rolling. She offered me an apple and I took the first bite. For twenty years I have been pushing. I still have not moved on and have barely moved the boulder. It is twenty-four hours here,  in my only valley. Where this myth earned his name. One I can't say without giving away the whole story. I have, to anyone with a high school diploma, hopefully. I remember the apple, bee too.

Blaming you is all I do.

Dreaming of that pain

which never went away, 

 just aged, matured

and grew stronger 

more  potent.

Made my entire life go wrong. The track was set but broken like all my bones and grew back jagged, rundown, raw and ragged. With this smile on my face, every time misplaced, disgraced, and forever cursed for being a silly boy with feelings open to the world for the prettiest girl I thought I never met. I thought I imagined her. That she was a thought in a cloud (a cloud not "The Cloud"), and turning to my candle for warmth and a handle on thirty-seven years wasted for two lips I barely tasted. 

thirty-seven years wasted 

for two lips I barely tasted

She lived and died in a dream, faded away before I could touch her face, smell her hair, follow her around while we touched our fingertips together. Those are made up memories as my life would be 37 years later. A nightmare, the story has to see an end in tragedy while I hope for comedy as no one laughs.

Fuck All of You!

It's your fault, not mine. I can create but you won't let me.

You are all fat, ugly and stupid. 

You are interested in the lives of people you don't know, and who would step over your starving bodies rather than give you a dime of their millions that you all gave to them.

You are star fuckers who fuck themselves over on a near constant basis. 

You don't deserve me, never have, and never will. I'm done with you, and I hope you choke on that greasy burger created for you by that guy named Guy; who can't wear sunglasses correctly and dresses like a fat toddler.

You are bad, 

worse than that, 

you are everywhere.

Your queen is famous for getting fucked on tape. 

Your prince is a boy who sings the songs that make the dead scream for more death. 

You are the reason all is awful. 

With your type two diabetes, cottage cheese thighs, pustules oozing, unwashed hair, belly fighting its way from your skinny jeans, stuck in an endless adolescence, a never ever land of peter pan porn, a world manufactured just for your needless needs, and I wish I could break off bottles of white zin in your thick skin.

 I wish I could bleed you, piggy.

Smash in your heads.

Crush your eyeballs in between my fingers.

Bite your syphilitic dicks off with the mouths of tiger sharks.

Take the brains you don't use and feed them to starving kittens.

Tear out your spinal cords and whip your backs raw with them.

Wrap my hands around the necks of your infants and squeeze until their hydrocephalic heads burst like the zits on your hairy asses, and sew those crabby vagina's shut with razor wire. Stuff you with splinters and termites, rattlesnake eggs, hornets, and kick you in a cage of wolverines and rabid rats armed with spikes. Drop boulders on your babies babies. Break your bones and scratch your skin. Bleed you, piggy. Bleed you dry.

Your wet dream is to be a fucking Kardashian, how pathetic. You breed, pushing out the only thing uglier than you, dumber and more depraved. And for a captain you choose a cheeto stained sock puppet stuffed with hog lips and flaunting a Brillo pad birds nest for a crown of thorns. A fucking clown for a fucking circus. A three ringed nazi shit show. A "Trumped" up cacophany of all that is phony and unfantastic.  Who could be more fitting for you? You are made for one and other, and together you will burn this mother fucker to the ground. Hail, heil, what's the difference? At least the Nazis had some fashion sense? You are an insult to Nazis. No one wants to claim you. A fart would apologize for you, a real asshole. There is not a word offensive enough to discribe the offense to humanity that you have become. I, an athiest, pray every night that maybe you will shoot yourself. A nice accident. A happy ending to this real AAAmerican horror story. 

My biggest achievement, my saving grace, the only thing that keeps me going at all, is the knowledge that I must be doing something right. How do I know this? The proof is in the fact that you don't care for what I create. If you liked my art I would blow my brains to a fine mist::::. That would prove my work is shit. If the same people who crave the songs of Taylor Swift and Adele, the bodies that tap their feet to that song "Happy" by that douche bag in a Canadian Mountie hat, who twitter endlessly about the lives of sisters who made their claim by getting banged by black men with bad taste, and who confuse all art with design and marketing. If those people gobbled up my photos then I would know I am a failure. So, I can't blame the others for not noticing me either. This world is too full of garbage. It has become too large a task to sort through the rubble in search of something great and meaningful. Well, for most it has. For most, art is not that important and this is not something I can blame on anyone. I can tell them, beg them, to try harder; to look for that which can enrich their lives. Living is hard enough. Living in a society like this one (a wasteland for those who crave creative thought) cuts deeper every minute. Life hurts when one thrives only through creativity.

Unfortunately, a big part of being an artist, even though no one wishes to admit it, is recognition, intelligent input, critique, and hopefully accolades. 

Now we have to deal with the opposite as a sign that we may be doing something right. If we put our work out there and no one latches on to it, no one praises its genius, no one makes comparisons to like-minded creators, and no one tries to "brand" you then maybe you are successful.I know my work is great, even though I am dirt poor and unnoticed, mostly. The only praise I receive is from Europeans who have never met me and know nothing about me personally. Europeans still have standards and taste. They still put an importance on not only the art itself but on the artist as a more complete person. They may not grovel at your feet or worship you the way our culture does a sixteen-year-old pregnant girl who wishes to live her life as a man in black face while participating in live gang bangs, but they appreciate you. Even their governments do this by subsidizing your housing and paying you to do whatever it is that you do. They see art as an important part of their civilization. How odd, right? They have not swallowed our McCulture the way we thought they would. They are better, and they don't even brag about it. They never chant "we are number 1". Do we? Fuck Yeah 'cause 'mer1ca is #Number 1! Although, we are maybe seventieth at best.

Yes indeed, America, Fuck you. Fuck your fat asses, slow minds, limited vocabularies, tendencies towards all that is monosyllabic if not literally than metaphorically, and fuck your fingers waving high. To cut off every America's index finger would serve you all right for you are number "nub". You are all nubs, or stubs, or stumps. You are partial. False. Half. Lacking. 

And I hate you all. 

Tomorrow I start a new job. It is not a good job, meaning that it does not pay much at all(10 bucks an hour). I'll be taking yearbook pictures of school children, K-12. I am not looking forward to being the "picture day" photographer to the under aged of this country. In my life now I am never around anyone under the age of 21. The thought of being a constant in a world of under 18 is haunting. If the over 21 can be a dumb, violent, uncontrollable and unpredictable as they have been in my experience then I can not imagine what their younger  brethren could  be capable of. The job is a must, however. I desperately need more money, and once I am sure of my schedule at this job I will start to look for a second. The next 8 to 10 months of my life are going to be dedicated to toil. I am going to work as much as possible to save as much as possible to learn some time management skills to drive myself crazy will mundane activities to dry out my system of this soggy laziness which has plagued me to teach myself a lesson or two to feel exhausted again to run myself ragged to get the most out of my time to not be in this house to squeeze the sweat from shirt to need a shower and a change of clothes to never have to pawn my camera again to get my gear out of the pawn shop for good to get exactly what I need to do exactly what I want and that is a new camera a new computer some classes on photoshop and maybe video editing and adobe illustrator and the rest of the adobe suite to acquire a passport and finally get a NV drivers license to save enough to buy a car and one year of insurance so I can get another job probably delivering pizza so I can earn tips so I can make more money and pay off other debts I have accrued to better my credit score to attain a credit card or two to get by if time get tough again so I don't have to resort to pawning my gear or taking out loans with apr's that resemble batting averages of hall-of-famer's. And that, my friends, is a run-on sentence, and that is a metaphor for my life. On and on without punctuation, problems run into one and other without solutions in sight or an end at all. There is no end in sight. Not at 10 bucks an hour. My goals will not be reached in 8 to 10 months. They will take years. I'll only be able to save around one hundred dollars a month. That means it will take me nearly 10 months just to get all of my gear out of the pawn shop and three months to get a lens out, and keep the other two in the shop for another month. At the end of the next month,  I'll have to spend 50 bucks of the hundred I can save to keep the other two lenses in the shop for three months in which at the end of those I'll be able to free one. Then it will  be four or five more until I can get the last one out, and this scenario is if nothing out of the ordinary happens-- if nothing goes foul, as usual.
Needless to say, something has to change. I can't just make 10 bucks an hour. I can't waste 40 hours a week for 400 bucks. I need to make 400 a day. I need to be taking photographs. I need to make a difference instead of barely making a dent. My time is worth more that this, but I would gladly take a job if I was offered the same 400 for 40 if that 40 was mine to take photos where and when I wanted. Then it would not be wasted. I despise the idea that in order to survive in this city on this planet in this time I must throw away half of my waking hours to bullshit movements which signify not a thing but meaningless toil. That in other to maybe make some difference I have to give up half of my life. The planet would be better off if I could do as I please. My photographs could make people think, feel, they could inspire one to create, could motivate one to speak up, could do something positive and never anything negative, in this world I could add order thus decreasing chaos thus giving life to positivity and killing negativity.  But I am not allowed to create full time. This world has to suck you dry, beat you down, dull your brain, cut at your creativity, and it wants to make you less of an individual and more of the same. Just a muddy minded machine. Just a man who works to consume to work to consume to work to work to die. And I want to put a stop to this. I have always wanted to put a stop to this. I never excepted that "this" is the way "things" are. A civilized society would not force its inhabitants to do less than they are capable of doing. I am a photographer, I should be taking photographs the way I see them. I should not be forced to do anything to survive. No one should have to do anything to have food and shelter.  Our world should be different. Greed and want of "things" ruined this free life for everyone. Men want more. More  land, more power, more women, more gold more control, more more, and it never makes anyone happier. All of the death and destruction in the name of stuff. That is why we have the type of society we have. That is why we have homeless men women and children. This is why we have people with no food, no medicine, and no education. All for more stuff. Or worse, more power. The fact that one man would want to have power(control) over another is unfathomable. I can not imagine needing to have someone listen to me so bad that I would kill his family for that attention. We do it, though. We fund it just by living here, and there really isn't much anyone can do about it. As humans we have damaged this planet so much, we have lived in a way that is antithetical to living. Our way is inconsistent with life. We impose death on people so people can live the way they want to which means people must die for they don't think the same as some, when having thoughts that differ should not be a problem. Thoughts, ideas, should not be dangerous. Doing anything that harms another is doing it wrong. That is exactly how one should measure his actions. Ask, "does this help or hurt?", if it hurts don't do it and if it helps then do it. Why has this simplicity evaded so many of us?
Every day I look around and see people doing wrong. I see litter on the ground. I see people screaming in traffic. I see the rude, mean, dirty minded, gluttonous, greedy, hate mongers thrive while the humble, kind, warm hearted ones suffer. We are not rewarded for being decent. We are rewarded for backstabbing, for greed, and for lack of concern for those less capable than we are. We don't take care of each other. We don't take care of ourselves or our surroundings. We shit where we eat, and this behavior that does not fit is starting to do what it should. It is starting to erode us. It is killing us. Our stupidity, our ignorance has become a monster which needs our dead flesh to survive.  

A Dream, A Nightmare? What's the Difference?

What did we expect to happen? Why were we surprised? And let's get something straight right now, when I say "we" I mean YOU, not me. I am not a fool. I am not easily entertained. I don't listen to what anyone says, much less The News. I hate The News, and of course, I mean main-stream-media; your household talking heads blurting teleprompter prose like vomit from freshmen the first Friday of football season. YOU listen to them. YOU love it; the infotainment they polish and feed you as News. It's bullshit. All of it. There is not a single decent journalist on staff on any U.S. television station, and if Trump is elected president then they should be punished for treason. They have done the masses a tremendous tanned orange baseball glove tang cotton candy haired monster of an injustice. The men and women behind the curtain know that Americans are dumb as dogshit and will eat any slop you shove in their fat fucking faces. And Trump has all the dogshit one could ever eat. All they had to do was ignore the bastard. He would have gone away, but No! the maggots need their money. You need ratings to get money. You have to keep people watching; tuning in to see the latest, greatest, up-to-date, awful spewage emanating from that moron's mangled mouth. It's a networks wet dream. Finally, it is proper to put Jerry Springer type etiquette on prime time. Finally, the gloves of decency can come off and they can give Americans what they want in News. Entertainment! A Show! An Act! A Clown! The best part is that no one will complain because it is the race for the presidential office. What could be more relevant and official?

What should the media have done? Report on the losers? They would not have to. The candidates who fell away, who perished, who failed did so because not a single reporter paid attention to any of them. The only questions they were asked were of the "did you hear what Trump said?" variety. That is all they did until no one knew what any of them stood for, their names, faces, anything at all. You focused in on Trump. He dominated late night tv, morning tv, talk radio, NPR, CNN, FOX, blah, blah, on and on. If it was made in America it was 24-7 Trump nation, and what a shame. Look where we are now! There is a chance he could win, and that won't be bad. If Trump is elected president it will not be four years of shitty policies, and silly bullshit we all roll our eyes over. If he is President of the United States of America this ship, this amazing democratic nation, this one-of-a-kind trendsetting world leader comes to a halt. The super power stops. The good-guy is no more. We will become the world's enemy. And he may not want to go after four years. The man is dangerously crazy and that fact should not be taken lightly as it has been up until now when it may be too late.

"Oh, your so perfect, what have you done?"
Nothing. No one will listen to me. I don't have big tits. I don't have neat "ink". I don't drive a fancy car. I am poor, ugly, dirty, but right. I read Al-Jazeera, not the New York Times. FOX, CNN, MSNBC, fucking puppet shows!! Every anchor on every station needs to stop reading the teleprompter and say, loud as thunder, "Dear Americans, we are sorry. We should have ignored Trump, but it is not too late. Don't vote for him. He is an evil liar. He is not fit to lead a flea circus much less the free world. No one will benefit if he is elected. America as we know it will vanish. Again, we are sorry. There is no balanced way to view him. We don't care how undemocratic this may seem but this is our future. If you want to see the future do not vote for Trump. Please, forgive us. " 

But really, what should happen is what YOU deserve. I would wish it on YOU if only it could happen in a vacuum and not affect the rest of the world. No one should suffer for YOUR ignorance. Not any more than they already do suffer from YOUR greed, gluttony, and love of bloodshed. They don't deserve to hurt any longer due to YOUR inability to think rationally. YOU can't look at, listen to, read about, and then process information about an asshole hellbent on destroying any semblance of progress we have made as a species, can YOU? If YOU could he would not be here.

"Can't we just blame the right? Like FOX? They support him."
See, this is it, FOX is YOUR fault also. It should not exist. That shit on that station is so fucking far from NEWS. It is irrational dribble. None of it makes sense. Calling that NEWS is false advertising. It is misleading and dangerous. Americans have become too dumb to be trusted with decisions. (And, by the way, I am going to get my passport. I am going to start working as much as possible to save as much as possible to get the fuck out of this country and away from all of YOU Fucking IDiotS!! )
A television set should only be available to those who pass a test. It would be an easy test, say, the equivalent of a high school exit exam. If you fail, well, it's back to the books before you get your 32 inches of flat fun. This goes for video games, apps, facebook, twitter, blah, blah, ha, ha, Sorry you fucking fat fools if you don't know the basics you don't get that quick fix. Oh, and stick your 2nd amendment up your hairy do-da ass, 'cause we're yankin' those "arms" off you all the live long day. You're too dumb to read, write, add, subtract, know some history, memorize some shit, and comprehend then we'll 86 the 2nd amend. Oh, this might be unfair for those who grow up in bad areas with bad schools? Nope. Every student, no matter where they are from, will go to a great school for we'll get rid of our defense budget, pull our troops from foreign lands, employ soldiers to rebuild our inner cities, 86 all petroleum products, bankrupt hundreds of rich criminals( take their land money everything and pay off our debt), free hundreds of thousands of criminals, and empower the poor. Remember our money IS based on something. Not gold. Not silver. FAITH. Once the people have faith that their lives will get better, that they won't be ignored, that the rich can't take from them their life liberty or their happiness, then all will finally change.
Anything can happen. If all can get this fucked then the opposite must be possible.