An ashen horse; and he who sat on it had the name Death…

Forgive me bloggers, for I have sinned. It’s been a month and a half since my last blog post.

I quit smoking. It’s been 28 hours since my last cigarette, and cancer has never looked more delicious. Plus, the world has also gone to shit… making my efforts seem more futile than usual.

I’m not afraid of too many things. But nuclear weapons are high on the list. I fear dying in one. I fear growths all over my body from the possible fall out of one. Most importantly, I fear the rich, wrinkled old fart that will decide that it’s time to get his rock’s off and use one of these bad boys to show the world how tough he is.

On a comparatively minor note, nazis, klansmen and other white supremacists protested in Virginia and it predictably became violent. I never thought we’d back slide on race relations in my lifetime… but here we go. I remember being a child and thinking the worst thing that was happening were days-of-the-week underwear and getting our cassette tapes tangled in our walkman.

On the bright side, we live in good times for dystopian writers, analysts, historians, journalists (the good ones, not the click bait-y ones) but it’s a fairly shitty time for almost any other sane human being.

There’s something creatively productive about how close we are to the brink. Never before have I felt that there were more ways for me to die under the incompetence of other people; one awful tweet from a top executive, one idiotic sneeze by some D-level dictator, one vest-strapped bomb screaming in a language I don’t understand, or some disgruntled white man with a chip on his shoulder and a hard-on for the good old days where he was allowed to whip black people…

When you take all that into account, smoking a pack a day doesn’t sound so bad after all.

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