[blackout poem, text reads:
really, I'm ready for 2017 to be over already.
yes, we've probably all had our personal good times, but damn. the collective bad times account is WAY the fuck overdrawn right now. I mean, way the fuck.
I think we're all feeling done right now.
and fuck. I hate to negate my own damn advice from a few days ago, but at the moment, I'm not really feeling too hopeful about 2018. (despite it being '18, the chai/life number.)
but maybe, just maybe we can get our collective asses together and reshape the world into what it needs to be in order to become a better world.
by 2019? 2020? oh, it feels so far away.
(the hubris of youth, that one even thinks there's a possibility it'll get better eventually. I'm still 42. this was meant to be my life, the universe and everything year, dammit. instead I get an anxiety, twitter war and fire storms kind of year. fun. fucking. times.)