“You notice they all sound alike these days?” Ryan said, referring to Democrats. “All they talk about is income inequality [which] really shows they’re out of ideas.”—
Paul “feed that child’s soul not his stomach, his reward will come in heaven” Ryan.
You just can’t argue with this sort of bedrock logic. Democrats who talk about income inequality and support programs and policies that address it are obviously just plain out of ideas. Do the Koch brother’s actually write Paul Ryan’s speeches for him?
“My name is [NAME REDACTED]. I wear eyeglasses. I look forward to coming to the [REDACTED] Library. I want you to send me lots of information about the [REDACTED] Library. I love tuna fish. Send me some information about eyeglasses and tuna fish. I want to also know about spanking paddles and about big, heavyset teachers that wear eyeglasses.”
~submitted to CLP at [REDACTED] Library “Questions? Comments? Suggestions?”
Do they really believe all that they say, and if so, how the fuck do they sleep at night?
But they’re politicians. Everything they say is a lie.
So how do they sleep at night?
Let’s imagine, for comedy’s sake, that there is a politician who actually cares, who votes his conscience, who is everything we expect politicians to be.
How does he sleep at night knowing that he is part of a huge structure, the very purpose of which is to shut people like him up? How does he feel about the fact that our men and women in uniform are fighting for bullshit political reasons and NOT freedom. Haven’t we licked that “freedom” Popsicle long enough?
Every vote he makes is fucking “symbolic”. How does he sleep at night?
How do we sleep at night knowing roughly half of the bank tellers in this country are on some form of public assistance while, last year, banks made a profit of 149 billion dollars?
If you wanna know where a lot of your tax dollars are going, it’s to subsidizing employees of giant corporations who, frankly, do not want to share.
Many giant, profitable corporations do this, including Walmart. And yet…
How do we sleep at night?
We demonize poor people, like fucking idiots, meanwhile we are in a new age of robber barons. Where is Teddy Roosevelt when we need him? Where?
When I sleep tonight, I will totally dream about Teddy Roosevelt. Hopefully.
“Cakes have gotten a bad rap. People equate virtue with turning down dessert. There is always one person at the table who holds up her hand when I serve the cake. No, really, I couldn’t she says, and then gives her flat stomach a conspiratorial little pat. Everyone who is pressing a fork into that first tender layer looks at the person who declined the plate, and they all think, That person is better than I am. That person has discipline. But that isn’t a person with discipline; that is a person who has completely lost touch with joy. A slice of cake never made anybody fat. You don’t eat the whole cake. You don’t eat a cake every day of your life. You take the cake when it is offered because the cake is delicious. You have a slice of cake and what it reminds you of is someplace that’s safe, uncomplicated, without stress. A cake is a party, a birthday, a wedding. A cake is what’s served on the happiest days of your life. This is a story of how my life was saved by cake, so, of course, if sides are to be taken, I will always take the side of cake.”—Jeanne Ray (via ladyfabulous)
Ordinary tasks become extraordinary challenges: The laundry. Phone calls. Emails. Making food. Making decisions. Engaging in conversation. Concentration proves impossible—you stare at your computer screen and all your words feel as if they are trapped behind a curtain far too heavy to lift. Deadlines are missed. These everyday failures compound adding an element of panic to the already untenable situation.
There is an undertow to depression. It doesn’t take you all at once. It leaves you with some false sense that you are coping. That you are in control. That you have the shore still well in sight, until, at some point, you raise your head to find yourself all alone, battered by rough seas with absolutely no idea which way you should swim.
If depression were as physically evident as, say, a broken limb or cancer, it would be easier to talk about. The pain could be marked, quantified, obvious to the observer. You would feel justified in saying, “I’m sorry that I haven’t returned your email but you can see the huge hole in the center of me, and I’m afraid it has made such dialogue impossible.” But the stigma of depression is that it comes with the sense that you shouldn’t have it to begin with. That it is self-indulgence or emotional incompetence rather than actual illness. This brings on attendant feelings of shame and self-loathing, which only exacerbate the pain, isolation, and hopelessness of the condition. “I cannot share this,” the depressed person thinks. “It is too embarrassing, too shameful.” And so, you swallow it down, until it feels that your heart is a trapped bird beating frantic wings against the pain you’ve shoved up against it. Depression isn’t like being sad or blue or wistful. It is crippling. It is a constant whine in your head, making it hard to hear yourself think.
it’s weird to think that everyone views you differently like one person might think you put the stars in the sky and another person could think you crawled out of the pits of hell and are here to drag them down with you