I woke this morning from a rather strange dream. In this dream I had been out running errands with one of the partners of the small architectural firm I worked at for the majority of my tenure in San Francisco. I remember asking how he’d been doing—knowing somewhere in my subconscious that he’d been in a skilled nursing facility for years—and he replied that he was on a new medication that seemed to be helping. Helping with what specifically I have no idea, but he handed me a box of whatever it was and I noted suspiciously that it was unopened. We continued chatting and we realized we’d known each other 40 years, and thinking about it now in the light of day I realize how quickly time has passed. I’m now older than he was when I first went to work for the partners and I soberly realized that Jack—who was a year younger than my Dad—has probably long since shuffled off the planet onto his next adventure.
In the dream, when I realized how long we’d known each other, Jack laid down, convulsed a couple times, and was gone. It was then I woke up.
I lost touch with the family a few years after Ben and I moved to Denver. His wife and I were good friends and used to correspond at least yearly, but my letters finally went unanswered, and I realize that Lei too, is no doubt passed onto bigger and better rthings.
This got me thinking about all the strong women who have played such a big part in my life. I don’t have an older sisters but each of these women has in their own way stepped into that role whether or not they acknowledged it.
Lei was the second to fill the role. She was confidant, counselor, and pal-around buddy I loved spending time with. Our views on life, the universe, and everything (not to mention politics) were perfectly in sync. When I left San Francisco for the first time to return to Tucson, our correspondence was weekly, if not more often. She loved working with fonts, and whenever I ran across one I thought she’d like, I’d remotely help her install it into Windows and then the next letter I received would of course, be printed in that font.
The first woman to fill the role was my friend Kekku. We met back in ’85 when we were working for two different architectural firms that shared an office space. I call her my Finnish Firebrand, but she was—and still is—one of my closest and dearest friends who will not hesitate to call out my bullshit. When my second partner had to go to San Francisco for a weekend on business (well in advance of our actual relocation there about 18 months later) and she learned I’d never been there an couldn’t go with him due to financial constraints she said, “You’ve never been to San Francisco?! I’ll buy you a ticket.” And she did. Talk about setting my life course!
The woman who’s been occupying this role in my life most strongly since before I met Ben is Cindy, the “nurse friend” I often refer to. We met when I was working at Phoenix Baptist Hospital in the 00’s and apparently had a bit of a reputation for being, um…”challenging” for everyone in I.T.
I had no such issues and found her delightful.
We bonded almost immediately, and we’ve been there for each other through thick and thin for the last twenty years. Again, it’s odd to think that I’m now older than she was when we first met…
So yeah, I’m all for strong women in our lives. They’re needed more than we realize.
I did not realize how badly I needed Rosie O’Donnell back on my television until she guest-hosted for Jimmy Kimmel and reminded me that one of the greatest weapons against a thin-skinned, tantrum-throwing, tyrant-cosplaying asshole like Donald Trump is to LAUGH RIGHT IN HIS FUCKING FACE.
Because Rosie O’Donnell is fucking FEARLESS, and Donald Trump absolutely cannot stand a woman he cannot frighten, flatten, flatter into submission, or otherwise force to genuflect before the wobbling orange wedding cake of his own self-importance.
He has been attacking this woman for TWENTY FUCKING YEARS, and that bloated, blubbery, butter-basted, blockheaded little bitch still hasn’t figured out that she is not afraid of him. He insults her. Threatens her. Obsesses over her. Drags her name out whenever the ancient grievance carousel inside his spectacularly stupid, sawdust-stuffed, synapse-starved skull starts wheezing around again, spewing the same petty, puerile, pissy little complaints he has been nursing since George W. Bush was president and people still had dedicated drawers for MapQuest directions.
And thanks to a plurality of smooth-brained, mouth-breathing, troglodytic, self-sabotaging shidiots, Donald Trump ascended to the presidency of the United States TWICE and still couldn’t evict Rosie O’Donnell from the rent-controlled duplex she apparently occupies inside his frontal lobe.
And Rosie just keeps fucking laughing.
Which made it absolutely DELICIOUS when she looked directly into the camera during her opening monologue, referred to him not as President Trump, not even as Donald Trump, but as “Mango Mussolini,” gave this teeny cheerful wave and said:
“Hi. I know you’re watching.”
I almost fucking DIED.
Five words. One wave. A goddamn assassination by finger wiggle.
She didn’t scream. She didn’t lecture. She didn’t even give the bastard his NAME. She just smiled into that lens with the exquisite serenity of a woman who knows EXACTLY where Donald Trump’s emotional prostate is located and gently pressed.
Hi, Mango Mussolini!
Because YOU KNOW HE WAS WATCHING.
You know that ambulatory sack of ego and edema was parked somewhere in front of a television, marinating in a bubbling vat of narcissistic injury, his tissue-paper ego disintegrating because the woman he has spent two decades trying to intimidate was CHEERFULLY WAVING AT HIM.
And the chef’s kiss is that she did it from JIMMY KIMMEL’S set, another person Trump has repeatedly tried to bully into submission who simply will not cow to him.
This ruinously insecure, criticism-allergic crybaby can spend all day cosplaying Caesar and have his emotional ecosystem collapse because somebody made a joke about his hair. For a man pathologically obsessed with dominance, Donald Trump radiates the sexual confidence of a guy who spends forty-five minutes adjusting the lighting before presenting a Vienna sausage and asking, “Be honest, does this look huge from over there?”
And we’re supposed to regard THIS asshole as a terrifying authoritarian?
This pampered, powder-faced fraud who looks like he fell asleep face-first in a bowl of spaghetti, staggered upright, got shoved into wardrobe and was sent onstage at the Shawnee Playhouse for a summer-stock production of Il Duce: The Temu Years?
The guy lacquered in peach-toned stucco, teetering around in high heels, cinched into a corset, crowned with a wind-tortured thatch installation, and wrapped in a suit containing enough excess fabric to tarp a fucking pontoon boat?
That’s the terrifying tyrant?
That distended satsuma in orthopedic elevators?
That marmalade manatee with a necktie?
That preening, pouting, pancake-pasted parcel of presidential pique?
PLEASE.
The whole goddamn thing is a SHOW.
The flags. The gold. The scowling photographs. The military spectacle. The dictator poses. The chest-puffing, chin-jutting, cocktail-wiener-swinging stagecraft of supremacy, right down to that bizarre double-fisted jerk-and-twist “dance,” the only choreography the braces around his legs now seem to allow, pumping both fists beside his hips like Hando Calrissian simultaneously jerking off two imaginary MMA fighters.
It is pomp wrapped around pathology, a gaudy, gilded, gold-plated papier-mâché colostomy bag with the emotional load-bearing capacity of a motherfucking meringue.
He’s the end-cap-clearance, factory-reject, off-brand imitation Wizard of Oz toy your coupon-clipping granny found at a garage sale after somebody had already blowtorched the face and redrawn the features with a fucking Magic Marker, now frantically yanking levers behind a polyester curtain, coughing out machine smoke and booming threats through a busted amplifier while praying nobody wanders backstage and discovers that the Great and Powerful Whatever-the-Hell is actually an aggrieved carnival appliance salesman in a discount statesman costume having a nervous breakdown.
And Rosie is Toto.
She trots right over and YANKS.
There he is.
No legend. No majesty. No magnificent masculine mystique. Just a brittle, blustering, bouffant-bearing blowhard whose psychological stability can be knocked sideways by a monologue joke.
POINT AND FUCKING LAUGH.
And watching Rosie do exactly that was cathartic for me for reasons that reached much further back than Donald Trump, because long before that malignant mandarin-colored motherfucker became the human push notification none of us can swipe away, she meant comfort to me.
Being home sick when I was younger meant blankets, daytime television and The Rosie O’Donnell Show, this gloriously goofy explosion of Koosh balls, Broadway songs, giveaways, celebrity crushes and completely unembarrassed enthusiasm pouring through the television. She loved things LOUDLY. She would practically levitate when somebody she adored walked onto that set, and there was something wonderfully uncomplicated about watching a grown woman refuse to ration her happiness for fear of looking uncool.
When you were sick and miserable on the couch, she felt like company.
There was safety in that show, a little daytime sanctuary connected in my memory to a kinder stretch of life when television could simply entertain you instead of informing you that democracy had just been stuffed into the trunk of a Lincoln Continental before breakfast.
So seeing THAT woman all these years later hit me somewhere I wasn’t expecting. The world changed. She changed. I changed. But there she was, still carrying that enormous capacity for delight, except now it belonged to a woman who has spent two decades being targeted by a vengeance-addled, vanity-engorged bully and still refuses to give that son of a bitch one drop of the fear he keeps trying to squeeze out of her.
I fucking LOVE that.
Maybe because I understand the mechanism.
I had plenty of bullies growing up, and children can be exquisitely efficient little sadists when they discover something that gets a reaction. They find the sore spot, jam a finger into it and WATCH YOUR FACE. Their cruelty isn’t complete until they see the flinch.
So I learned to sabotage the whole damn setup.
If somebody was going to make fun of me, I could let everybody laugh AT me, or I could grab the joke before it landed, improve the motherfucker and make everybody laugh WITH me.
So I became funnier than the little asshole coming for me.
You found something embarrassing about me? Congratulations, cupcake. Give me thirty seconds and I’ll make it funnier than you ever could.
And it worked like a charm, because the instant everyone starts laughing WITH the person you intended to humiliate, you’ve lost control of the room. Your weapon has been confiscated, your cruelty grenade turns out to be a party popper, and now people are looking at YOU.
Bullies hate that.
So do despots, dictators, demagogues, dime-store Duces and every puffed-up, power-drunk prick who depends upon everyone treating him like an eight-foot marble monument instead of a mortal asshole with gastrointestinal problems.
Bullies need your humiliation. Despots need your deference. Dictators need their mythology.
Humor is a goddamn crowbar jammed underneath all three.
Ridicule doesn’t make dangerous people harmless. These people are dangerous because they possess actual authority.
But we do not have to lend them OUR awe.
We don’t have to become unpaid extras in their shitty little tyranny pageant. We don’t have to gasp when the smoke machine starts or applaud the costume, and we sure as hell don’t have to help some vain, voluble, volume-discount despot inflate himself into some towering object of reverence when he keeps landing somewhere between county-fair hypnotist and divorced casino magician whose tiger got repossessed.
For a man so ravenous for submission, Donald Trump spends an extraordinary amount of time pleading with the universe to reassure him that he is bigger, tougher, richer, taller, harder, smarter, hotter, more feared, more virile, more magnificent than every other swinging mammal on Earth, while lumbering around with an ass that appears to have entered the room several seconds before the rest of him and may require its own tugboat escort.
The flags get more gigantic. The gilt gets more garish. The threats get more theatrical. The trousers descend farther toward the floor as though hems themselves have entered witness protection. Every inch of the performance screams BEHOLD MY POWER while the performer looks like a bloated birthday clown who got into a fistfight with a spray-tan booth, lost, and then demanded everyone call him Daddy.
That is the fucking charade.
And mockery is how you puncture it.
Strip away the props. Expose the fraud. Make the emperor stand there in his fucking Spanx, stretched to structural failure around that swollen, sloshing sack of octogenarian suet.
Then LAUGH.
Laugh loudly. Laugh publicly. Laugh without permission.
Mock him. Puncture the pomposity. Remind the world that underneath all the presidential pageantry, authoritarian affectation, belligerent bluster and tough-guy theater is someone who cannot fucking bear the sound of people laughing at him.
Because the emperor needs you admiring the robes.
The counterfeit wizard needs you watching the smoke.
The bully needs to know he hurt you.
Don’t give them a fucking thing.
Keep laughing. Keep pointing. Keep humiliating these pompous pricks until every last inch of manufactured menace collapses into the pathetic punchline it always was.
Does anyone else sit with an almost subconscious belief that yes, this nightmare will end—and then, for years to come, information will be uncovered about what was happening in and around this administration for over a decade and it will be more horrifying and unhinged than anything we can imagine?
Ignorance is not a compelling argument at this point.
We’ve all heard the theories for the last ten years: people still supporting Donald Trump are unwitting victims of the partisan media and Evangelical alternate reality that they’ve been raised in and are still captives of. They’re continually surrounded by fake news and endless conspiracy, and so they aren’t bad people; they just aren’t seeing what we are seeing, and we need all to be more understanding.
We’re a decade into this madness. This just isn’t acceptable anymore.
There isn’t a sufficient excuse for being an adult so sheltered from facts and so truth-deprived that you can’t see Trump’s complete sociopathy and you can’t discern the existential threat he and his party are to this nation.
His supporters aren’t being asked to dig beneath some complex, brilliantly crafted ruse perpetrated by Conservative media and religious conglomerates working in concert. If you can read Trump’s own social media feed or listen to the bile he spews in front of the cameras at female reporters and political opponents, and not be fully disgusted to the point of vomiting, you aren’t a reasonable human being. Either that, or you are willingly choosing to engage in wild intellectual and theological gymnastics to avoid a reality that makes you uncomfortable, intentionally avoiding some really vile stuff that he and his collaborators aren’t even attempting to conceal anymore.
I’m fully convinced that nearly everyone still supporting Donald Trump knows he is a reprehensible human being and guilty of high crimes against this nation, but they simply can’t admit to themselves or anyone else they made a mistake, and so they are doubling down again and again.
They’re not stupid; they’re just willing to let America die on the altar of their pride, which may be far worse.
Being an adult means being responsible for ferreting out what is real and what isn’t, and for making good decisions with the available information. This is what we demand from our children, isn’t it? We only let their ignorance be an excuse for so long, and then we remove that option because we expect them to be smarter than that at some point. And if we realize that they are smart enough to know better, then it becomes an indictment of their character.
If grown men and women aren’t willing or able to sift information and choose wisely because of their media choices or their circle of friends or their mental effort, the net result is the same: they are enabling and protecting reprehensible behavior that places people in great danger.
If Fox News creates your reality, you’re going to be hateful toward lots of people. You’re going to be afraid of Muslims, LGBTQ people, immigrants, people of color, refugees—and on and on and on. And if you’ve been on the planet for a few decades, you should have developed the critical thinking not to allow a network that brokers in fantasy and fiction to be your baseline for truth. That’s a youproblem.
If The Religious Right defines for you what it means to be a Christian, your Christianity is going to look nothing like the actual teachings of Christ. It’s going to be an angry, violent thing devoid of compassion and gentleness. That isn’t your preacher’s fault, and it isn’t Franklin Graham’s fault, and it isn’t the Devil’s fault. As a thinking Christian who supposedly reads the words of Jesus and reflects on them regularly—you should see through this sham in a hot minute and soundly reject it.
If the brazen, unapologetic racism and xenophobia and misogyny on display right now is too subtle for your sensibilities, and if Nazis marching through town squares, supremacist politicians, and election interference fall beneath your radar, you either intentionally have your head in the sand or it isn’t on straight to begin with—and either is a problem.
Many of my white Evangelical friends supporting Trump aren’t as much stupid or unaware as they are cowardly. They held their noses in 2016, voted in anger or haste or error, and then quickly got out of the politics business, choosing to escape the consequences of their decision on other people. So Newsmax and the Conservative Christian Church have become convenient places of sanctuary for people with privilege wanting to hide from the results of their vote.
Again, they aren’t ignorant of reality; they just are opting out of it altogether. If it is stupidity, the affliction is highly selective, extremely localized, and very convenient. And if that’s the case, are we supposed to expect in year eleven or twelve they’re going finally have a magical epiphany and part with him?
It’s time we stopped giving adult human beings the benefit of the doubt, simply because we think they’re not smart enough not to be fooled by religious shysters, fake news peddlers, and political snake oil salesmen. If that is true, then they’re also not smart or mentally available enough to be presented with objective data or compelling arguments and to filter them responsibly. They are, practically speaking, unreachable with rational measures.
I’m tired of having to treat people like children when they aren’t capable or willing to see what even a child can see, what my children can see. They know hatred and bullying without needing to read a think piece or do online research or unpack layers of religion and history.
I’m over justifying bigotry and racism and the horrible stuff happening in the country, and giving people who perpetuate it a pass because they supposedly don’t realize they’re supporting a monster—when most of the watching world seems to get it.
In a time when information is available at our fingertips and when conversation and study and exploration are limitless, I’m through excusing supposed adults for not being able to make a decision that is based in reality, simply because they’re in some hateful, self-righteous, nationalistic bubble. That’s their fault, not ours.
I don’t hate these people, but I’m also not going to coddle them and encourage their ignorance anymore because lots of people are damaged when that happens.
Sooner or later we adults all have to own our supposed stupidity–and choose to be wiser
For Mr. and Mrs. P. A. Gillespie, the Marston, Van Pelt & Maybury would design a French Norman Revival-influenced cottage with a striking resemblance to their earlier commission for interior designer George S. Hunt. Both homes have similar floor plans, with the Gillespie residence having an additional first floor bedroom and slightly larger service quarters. As always, I’m a big fan of the home’s tall, impossibly pitched roof bookended by two chimneys, and it’s clean-lined exterior, which lends the romance of the Norman countryside to sunny Pasadena. Project: Residence of Mr. and Mrs. P. A. Gillespie, 1927 Architect: Marston, Van Pelt & Maybury Location: Pasadena, California Source: House Beautiful
It does need a publicly-accessible half bath for guests. I would also punch through from the Kitchen to the Living Room to facilitate better circulation during gatherings. I would put French doors from the Dining Room to the outside where a beautiful lattice-roofed stone terrace could be built. Same goes for the Sun Room that would make a beautiful Office leading outside to a side terrace.
I would’ve put a huge skylight over that central area, but that’s just me…
Minimalist design. 13×13 House by ARKRAFT 287 m² San Nicolás de los Garza, Nuevo León, Mexico Photograph Hector Pineda.
Casa 13×13 is a single-family home located in San Nicolás de los Garza, Nuevo León, that explores how a clear geometric organization and an introspective spatial strategy can generate a rich domestic experience within a compact scale. The house is structured around a central open-air void that functions as a courtyard, allowing natural light and ventilation, as well as establishing visual connections between the different levels. This void acts as the main spatial organizer, connecting the circulation areas, social spaces, and private areas.The architecture is defined by a restrained material palette and a precise spatial sequence that prioritizes clarity and continuity between spaces. Instead of relying on large openings to the exterior, the house is oriented inwards, using the courtyard as a controlled space for daily use and environmental connection. Casa 13×13 proposes an alternative for contemporary urban housing, demonstrating how a rigorous spatial organization can lead to a serene and consistent domestic architecture.
on Sunday, Georgia Democratic Senator Jon Ossoff delivered a barn-burner of a speech, in which he ripped Preznit Fuckwit several new ones, for being the incompetent imbecile who lied our country into an unwinnable war against Iran, and for being the callous toad who is ignoring the plight of the five thousand sailors trapped aboard the USS Abraham Lincoln.
but all that was lost on the MAGAverse, because there were three words toward the end of Ossoff’s speech that caused every Republican to immediately shit a massive, white-hot brick and explode into paroxysms of performative outrage.
“he wants to build his ballroom and travel with Natalie on their apparently defenseless flying palace gifted by the Emir of Qatar.”
that’s right, Jon Ossoff went there. he brought up the weird stalker-slash-diaper-nurse who is now Dear Leader’s constant companion.
once those three words — ‘travel with Natalie’ — escaped Ossoff’s lips, the entire Donnyverse clutched their pearls and collapsed onto their fainting couches.
oh my good, how dare Jon Ossoff say such a mean thing!
Jon @ossoff subjects an innocent female staffer, a bone cancer survivor who credits President Trump’s Right to Try legislation for saving her life, to the oldest and most vulgar innuendo there is, simply because she’s at work seemingly all the time. Ossoff should apologize.
oh dear, can someone get in here and see if they can revive Tim?
what on earth is Tim Murtaugh talking about? what ‘vulgar innuendo’? all Ossoff did was to accurately describe the situation. Diaper Nurse Natalie travels with Dear Leader. not a day goes by that the two of them aren’t photographed together. to point that out is not ‘innuendo.’
I never really knew what to think about Ossoff. He seemed a backbencher who played it safe. Now I see he’s a bottom feeder. Who does this and holds their head high? Who accuses women of behaving like that because he doesn’t like their boss. This guy should be ashamed.
whoa, whoa, slow the fuck down there, Ari. show us on the doll where Ossoff accused Natalie of ‘behaving like that’.
like what?
it’s pretty weird how every Republican immediately interpreted ‘travel together’ to mean that Donny and Nattie are getting it on, isn’t it? this sounds like another one of those ‘every accusation is a confession’ things again, doesn’t it?
that’s because it is. Republicans have eyes. they can see what’s going on.
they know how bad this looks, President Pussygrabber swanning around with some blonde half his age, while his Slovenian green-card rent-a-wife is nowhere to be seen.
look, it’s not Jon Ossoff’s fault that Donny immediately falls for any woman who reminds him of the daughter he want to quote-unquote ‘date,’ if that’s what we’re charitably going to call it. this shit happens over and over. remember the Presidential Pants Steamer, Hope Hicks, who was right by his side throughout his first term?
This has generated concern among other aides who feel she has been far too willing to serve as a funnel for conspiratorial information at a moment when Mr. Trump appears more contemptuous than ever of attempts to manage or control him.
but Donny keeps overruling them.
Mr. Trump has dismissed concerns about Ms. Harp, whom he calls “sweetie” and treats like a daughter, according to people close to him.
and we all know how Donny treats his daughter.
but somehow, this is all Jon Ossoff’s fault — and so the entire wingnut outrage-industrial complex has risen up as one to demand that Ossoff apologize.
Yes @ossoff should apologize and he should get beaten in November. He’s a ridiculous caricature of a senator and far too left wing for Georgia. And a mean-spirited jerk who traffics in slander as well.
Jon Jackoff has to be the biggest cuck loser in politics. Instead of denigrating hard working people serving their country, Jon should look deep into his soul and ask himself why he’s a miserable person who hates this country. It’s because he’s a radical, extremist Dumocrat.
who even talks like this? I swear, everyone in the Donnyverse operates on the emotional level of a 14-year-old boy.
all this performative outrage over something Jon Ossoff never actually said is just a distraction — just more red meat for the cultists, to make them forget for a day that Donny has made their lives measurably worse in every way.
Jon Ossoff apologize? piss straight up a rope, pal. it’s Donny who should apologize, for fucking America straight into the shitter.
it’s Donny who should apologize for destroying Joe Biden’s strong economy.
it’s Donny who should apologize for enriching himself while in office.
it’s Donny who should apologize for pardoning the January 6th insurrectionists.
it’s Donny who should apologize for inflicting his stupid face and name onto money, passports and half the buildings in Washington, DC.
it’s Donny who should apologize for allowing the Space Nazi’s merry band of pimply DOG incels to fire entire agencies, to the point where government is now broken.
it’s Donny who should apologize for allowing racists to set immigration policy, crackpots to set healthcare policy, and fossil-fuel flunkies to set environmental policy.
it’s Donny who should apologize for alienating all of our allies and snuggling up to the world’s worst despots.
it’s Donny who should apologize for turning American cities into war zones, where masked government thugs are allowed to gun down anyone who looks at them funny.
it’s Donny who should apologize for blundering into an winnable war that’s depleted our weapons stockpile and jacked up the price of every fucking thing.
it’s Donny who should apologize for throwing a 250th birthday party that was such a rinky-dink piece of shit that even his own cultists refused to show up for it.
it’s Donny who should apologize for destroying the Oval Office, the East Wing, the South Lawn, the Rose Garden and the Reflecting Pool.
“quiet. quiet. quiet. you’re very disrespectful in front of this young man. okay? don’t you find her disrespectful? quiet. who are you with?”
Holmes: “CNN.”
“fake news. you’re fake news. you’re a loud— you’re a loud, boisterous person. you’re fake news. be quiet. BE QUIET. BE QUIET. you’re a fake reporter, and you report fake news.”
shut the fuck up, Piggy.
oh, excuse us if Kristen Holmes takes her job as a reporter seriously, instead of slavishly following Dear Leader around, and braying like a hyena at everything he says, like some people we know.
do you know what Kristen Holmes had been asking Donny about, that made him lose his fucking mind? the diaper nurse, of course. she wanted to know if Donny had any comment on what Ossoff had said about thew two of them traveling together.
Kristen Holmes is one of the most respected and accomplished journalists covering the White House. This afternoon, she did her job and asked the President of the United States a tough, relevant, and newsworthy question on behalf of the American people. Public officials are free to challenge reporting they disagree with, but personal attacks on journalists for asking questions are beneath the office and inconsistent with the principles of a free press. We stand firmly behind Kristen and reject these attacks in the strongest possible terms.
worthless scribblers of the corporate-controlled media, are you paying attention? this is how it’s done — though if I had been a member of the press pool in the Oval Bordello yesterday, I would have immediately won my own What The Fuck Is Wrong With You Challenge™, which is now in its 2,331st day.
honestly, I don’t give a shit what Donny and Natty get up to, as long as it’s consenting. that’s their own business.
I do give a shit what Donny and his Republican enablers are doing to our country.
oh, and while we’re at it, release the full, unedited Epstein Files, you fucking fucks.
this is going to be my closing message for the foreseeable future:
practice self-care. do what you need to do to keep sane. if that means you need to disengage with my daily posts for a while, I get it. this community of ours will still be here when you return.
to all the people who have signed on in the days since the election, welcome aboard. settle in as we all try to deal with the shitfuckery that’s ahead of us.
we are all in this together, and we are all here for each other.
“The Neutra Home” by Richard Neutra This house plan is from this old tattered book called The Small Home of Tomorrow by Paul R. Williams AIA, from 1945
