Arlo will be two in June. We have entered full-blown toddlerhood. Luckily, he’s my fourth child so I know lots and lots of helpful things about toddler discipline and entertainment and excellence in general.

I’m basically an expert. As such, I’ve compiled a list of things I’ve learned in the service of all humanity. 

Here you go. How to raise an excellent toddler:

1.     Make sure you give your kid plenty of attention so they don’t act out in pursuit of “negative attention” (because, as we all know, it’s “still attention”).

2.     However, do not give them too much attention because you will spoil them, and they will grow up to be the dude driving 55 in the fast lane because that’s how they like it gottdammit TO HELL WITH THE REST OF YOU.

3.    Siblings are a good way to make sure your toddler doesn’t think they’re the center of the universe because your time will necessarily be divided among all the kids. But this can make the toddler feel neglected. Make sure you balance that. Also, siblings are a good way to make your toddler think they ARE the center of the universe because everybody in the family is all “OMG look how cute the baby is!”

4.    In other words, your toddler is acting out because you are spoiling them through their siblings and neglecting them because of their siblings.

5.    There is no apparent way to fix this. Have a nice day.

6.     Sometimes toddlers need you to soothe and hold them during tantrums. Other times you need to walk away from them. These tantrums appear identical.

7.     FIGURE IT OUT.

8.     Giving in to a tantrum is a uniformly terrible decision and by all forms of reason, decency, and logic will only result in a total dick of a human, but sometimes you have to do it because you’d rather die than listen to this shit for one more second.

9.     Keeping a toddler busy by offering questionable food items so you can get some critical thing done is a horrible parenting move that pretty much only concerns you through child number one. Just yesterday I bought cookies at Starbucks and gave them to my toddler solely so he would sit in the cart at Target. Leave me alone.

10. The only things toddlers want to play with are: toilet water, knives, and ash from the fireplace. Wait. No: Dog water, cat food, anything out of the dishwasher that can impale them, trash, marbles, liquid soap, and iPhones. If you stop the toddler from playing with any of these things, they will scream. These are “walk away” tantrums.

11. Sometimes, for reasons unknown, toddlers will throw themselves around the room in unbridled glee at bedtime. You may think: “Was there caffeine hidden somewhere in the day? Did one of those other kids give him a sip of the green tea latte they shouldn’t have been drinking?” Then you will think, “I have ruined this child. He has no routine. WHAT HAVE I DONE?” They will scream when you make them go to sleep. This is a “cuddle” tantrum.

12. You can definitely trust my tantrum classification method. I’ve made it up randomly over 14 years of parenting based on my initial gut instinct and the level of remorse I feel after.

13. People will always, always blame you for the deficiencies of your toddler. You will suspect they are correct. Also, you will want to cut them. Then you will remember the number 1 rule of parenthood: Kids are who they are and you really can’t change them but if they aren’t perfect it’s your fault.

14. WHAT? Yes. That’s what we have here, folks. If you aren’t following, read another book.

15. Parenting books are the fucking worst. Unless they help. I wouldn’t know because I gave up hope around child number 2.

16. I’m kidding! Never give up! Constant self-improvement and hope! Unless your kid had one of those twenty minute car naps replacing the actual nap. If that’s the case, give up hope. You’re going DOWN. Your toddler, however, is not.

17. In related news, your toddler will hit, kick, pinch, and possibly bite other humans. You will think for a moment there’s something pathologically wrong with your child because who the fuck bites people? But then you will remember that all toddlers, ALL TODDLERS, act like rabid animals for at least 2-4 months of their lives. The only person at the park who doesn’t know this is the mother of the child your kid just bit. (WHY UNIVERSE WHY?)

18. Potty training before two. Ha ha haaaaaaaaaaaaaa. Go home with that nonsense.

19. Toddlers are like border collies: If you don’t give them a job, they will dig out of the yard and eat the fucking hose. Only unlike border collies, toddlers hate all your ideas for entertainment, preferring only their own, such as eating butter off a knife blade, dipping broccoli in a toilet, or playing with the toilet brush, or really anything at all involving toilets and their water and brushes. Except peeing into the toilet. That is a stupid, stupid, very boring game.

20. AND YET, toddlers are the cutest mammals alive and are so profoundly adorable whilst talking, running, and expressing their little personalities that you will think, at least once a day, “Oh god please never grow up. I SHOULD HAVE THREE MORE.”

21. And then they will throw your FitBit away and shit on your arm somehow.

But it won’t help.

You will still find them irresistibly annoying, and simultaneously mourn and beg for the time that they’re a little bigger.

Basically, after 14 years, here’s what I’ve got going on in my brain: Do not fuck this up, Janelle. You are fucking this up. You are not fucking this up but will feel like you are. Sometimes you do fuck it up, in which case you should try to do better and that may or may not work but in the meantime you’ll notice the kids are growing up and turning out fine. Good, even.

And you’re more surprised than anybody.

So let’s just focus on that because the rest is too fucking complicated.

Go ahead. Suggest an activity.

****

Eight spots left in my May writing workshop.

I hope one of them is yours.

I have long believed that the problem with motherhood is that you can’t check out for a bit, go on vacation, take a motherfucking “mental health” leave, “recharge” over the weekends. Look forward to Friday.

Or, you know, two weeks in Mexico. (Do people actually do that?)

There is no built-in relief valve and very little potential for “a relaxing evening.” And yet, sometimes you really aren’t into it, and you have to keep going. For like, years.

You can’t “leave it at the office” at the end of the day. There is no end of the day. THERE IS NO END OF THE DAY.

It feels relentless sometimes. It feels unforgiving. It feels forever.

(Hey there HI, look, quick note: I know it’s not actually forever, so we can just go ahead and not write the “Someday you’ll be very sad they’re gone, Janelle” comment because thanks I know and yes it hurts my soul and I’m super fucking tired anyway.)

But I realized something recently, from my friend, Lynn. I told her I couldn’t write or get anything done beyond the most critical components of each day. Like I just couldn’t fucking do it. No motivation. I just want to lie around in my bed and eat simple carbs and drink tea, for health, but also flavor. Mostly flavor.

I told her I couldn’t muster the willingness to do more and didn’t know what was wrong with me. I told her I want to watch movies all day.

She told me, “That’s cool. You should do that.” And I was like “What?” And she was like, “Just fucking DO THAT. Why do you think you shouldn’t? You’ll get done what you have to. We always do.”

I couldn’t answer. I guess because I feel like I “should” be doing this and that and the other damn thing, and disengaging, doing things that are frivolous and “not helpful to others” is somehow wrong or ungrateful or a waste of time but mostly what I felt was shame.

Shame? Really? We’re there, Janelle? We’re at “shame?”

You know what?

FUCK SHAME.

Where the hell did it come from anyway?

When did I start believing that “me time” is some scheduled-in healthy activity to recharge my soul and feel capable and mature again? Did I ever feel capable and mature? When was that, exactly?

Like a bath or spa trip or pedicure or “night out with friends” is enough to soften the fact that I was awakened at 5am and puked on by 5:30am, while lying in a bed with sheets I had put on the night before.

Sometimes, I’m just over this shit, and what I need to do to “nourish myself” is perform the absolute bare minimum, possibly for days at a time, until something changes.

Yes, that is my deep conclusion. You’re welcome.

I lose motivation and I think something is wrong with me. I think “You should be progressing, Janelle, moving forward on projects at work and at home, feeling inspired and healthy and shit!” I lose the ability to be all the things all the time and suddenly I’m deeply flawed and need help?

Fuck that. I’m human. I’m being human. I’m tired.

Then I feel guilty for feeling guilty about my limitations because clearly I have internalized gendered work expectations and I should be okay with who and what I am without thinking I need to be “fixed” and improved somehow by “positive self talk” and yoga, so I’m ashamed about dropping into bare minimum and I’m ashamed for feeling ashamed for dropping into bare minimum?

WHAT THE FUCK HAVE WE DONE TO WOMEN?

Or maybe I’m just crazy. Whatever.

I unsubscribe.

I’m going with Lynn’s theory.

This weekend, I did approximately 12 minutes of housework and stayed in my pajamas 85% of each day. Big activities were: Trip to store (alone) and trip to movies (with kids). That’s it. Full stop. Have a nice day.

Today, after dropping my toddler off at day care, and driving to my office, I turned around and drove the 15 minutes back home. Even though I had a hundred things to do, emails to send, people to contact, words to write, I felt a heaviness in my eyes and across my face and remembered that I had changed the sheets again, on account of the vomit, so my bed had crisp white sheets on it, and the house would be silent and empty, and I could let the cats in and we could get in that bed, and sleep.

So I went home, and silenced my phone, and took my jeans off and went to sleep, with my hair still wet from my shower, and when I woke up after an hour, I realized I wasn’t done yet, so I went back to bed, and I slept for 2.5 hours straight.

Then I got up and wrote to you.

Because you know, here’s the thing:

We already do, at the bare minimum, a ridiculous amount of work. We get up at ungodly hours and get puked on and deal with kids with nightmares and kids in wet pajamas and breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Getting dressed, getting to school and work, getting home, groceries, activities (they pop up even when you avoid the bastards). We’re driving carpools and packing diaper bags and getting dressed for work. We’re feeding and cooking and “leaning in” and washing and texting and planning and getting degrees and getting sick and well again and helping other humans do all these things. It’s a beautiful shit show.

And somehow, on top of all that, we think we need to be fit, happy, and organic. We think we need to be sleeping well and using soft voices and engaging in age-appropriate play and we need the weeds pulled and the dust bunnies gone and the garage organized. The entryway cutely designed.

I don’t even believe these things. And yet somewhere, deep in my gut, there’s a voice telling me, “No Janelle. You can’t sleep for 3.5 hours when you’re supposed to be working, even though you’re nearly out of your mind with exhaustion.”

And I look at my garage and think “Does anyone else live this way? Seriously?” And I wonder if there’s something wrong with me, secretly.

And when my kids are being assholes, I think, “I probably made them this way with my yelling.” And I feel ashamed, and afraid.

And sometimes I realize it’s 5pm and I picked up my baby at 4pm and I’m already tired of taking care of him. I ask myself “Janelle! What are you doing? He’s already almost two! He will be gone soon! How are you not enjoying every moment? How are you not savoring this time?!” And my heart drops again into a flash of deep shame.

You know what?

Fuck shame.

This is what I’ve got. This is it. It’s either enough or it’s not.

Sometimes it’s full of power and creation. Other times it’s asleep during working hours with a pillow over its head. But it’s always here, and it’s always ready to grab a tiny hand, examine the fat little knuckles and wonder how anything so beautiful could possibly exist, and why, why the fuck are we up at 5am?

I guess what I’m saying is we’re enough.

But you don’t need me to tell you that.

We can look around, and see for ourselves…

Though sometimes it’s nice to hear.

******

Hey. Fuck housework and write with me. 

We’ll have fun.

Hey there, people parenting in the snow.

I just spent 48 hours with four kids in the snow and I have a few questions for you.

In short, how the ever-loving fuck do you do this?

I wasn’t even in real snow. I mean, I was. There was white cold stuff on the ground, but it wasn’t snow-ING and the roads were mostly clear and it wasn’t 9,000 below or whatever the hell it is in Winnipeg. It did, however, require “snow gear,” which took approximately 2 weeks to compile and about the same amount of time each morning to put on the kids in question.

1. Socks
2. Snow boots
3. Snow pants
4. Something to wear under the snow pants
5. Bib or jacket
6. Something to wear under bib or jacket
7. Hat
8. Mittens
9. Underwear

Ok. Now. We need to back the fuck up here. This is not right. You cannot possibly put ALL THESE CLOTHES ON ALL YOUR KIDS ALL THE DAYS.

You don’t really have to do that, right? You don’t really have to keep together and get on the actual bodies of children nine items of apparel?

What if the toddler pukes? What if the baby has a blow-out? How do you change diapers at all actually? What about the obligatory 4-year-old clothing strike? How do you not lose mittens? Do those bastards ever stay on? How do you keep your baby’s nose warm in the stroller? Can you even use strollers? How do you fit all that shit in cars? Where do you put it while you’re in a restaurant? How do you drive on slippery roads with the kids fighting in the back? How do you not die on icy roads I ask you? How do you nurse?

OH MY GOD HOW THE FUCK DO YOU POTTY TRAIN?

This is impossible. This is not a thing.

Y’all are some goddamn heroes.

On Saturday morning, after we finally got all four kids into their “snow gear” – um, I don’t dress my 14 and 10 year olds, but I do remind them of their stuff (especially the 10-year-old) because otherwise it ain’t pretty – and I felt like I had been hit by a small truck, we stopped at a stop sign about 12 seconds from the house and my toddler gagged on some food item and puked all over his snow bibs. All in the zipper and shit. I’m sure that was a rookie move (putting the kid in the bibs before arrival), but it occurred to me in that moment that I could never, ever do parenthood in the snow.

I would die. I would have one. I would have one and then, I would regret it.

Slipping on ice. Getting cold. Keeping mittens on (that shit is like whack-a-mole on meth). Kids who need to pee. (omg diarrhea. taking sick kids to the doctor!) Jeans touching snow and thereby rendering themselves unusable for 9 hours. Drying out 12,000 articles of clothing every day.

You know what I have to tell my kids when they walk out the door? PUT YOUR SHOES ON.

And 8 months out of the year, even those are relatively optional.

Also, that feels hard somehow.

Okay, water and sunscreen. More requirements. But you need those things too. For a couple of months my kids may need some sort of rain slicker but the Good Ol’ California Drought has mostly taken care of that inconvenience (this is a joke. The drought is not good. In fact, please put on your “snow gear” and do a rain dance before my state becomes a desert).

Parenthood is hard for everyone – except of course that handful of mommies in small, dark corners of the internet – and it’s not a goddamn competition, but I personally do not understand how people navigate it in certain conditions. For example, twins.

AND SNOW.

Omg twins in the snow.

Forget it. I need some tea. I feel actual fear.

That was so much work. SO MUCH WORK.

And yet, you do it.

It is, however, very pretty, and very fun, and I feel so lucky to get to visit there. And the kids loved it.

We’ll definitely be back.

In a fucking year. 

This white shit is amaaaaazinnnnnnnggggggg! Now give me a minute to remove my mitten then play in the snow until my fingers are so cold I cry but I refuse to wear my mittens because I’m 20 months and this makes sense. Yay snow!

When I write about my sadness, people try to fix me. They try to fix me up with their heartfelt advice, or admonitions. Their concern. So much concern. Deep and earnest.

I need more “me time” (whatever the fuck that means). I’m overwhelmed because “I’ve taken on too much.” Perhaps I don’t understand that “life is hard.” If I would just be “more grateful.”

They tell me “I’ll be okay,” even though I didn’t ask. They tell me how to get “better,” though I didn’t ask for medicine. Hell, I didn’t even know I was sick.

But they tell me anyway.

If you feel like shit, go get some medicine, Janelle. Get some help, Janelle. Get better get happy get that smiling face on please.

Your family relies on you, you know.

I’m so tired of this shit. My friend told me about “happiness culture,” the idea that we must be happy or something is wrong, with us, and we should figure out our shit RIGHT NOW because let’s be honest, your lack of unbridled glee makes people feel weird.

And nobody wants to feel weird.

I wonder though, what would happen if we let people be broken sometimes?

What if we let a little sadness be okay? What if we let a little misery, even, a little dark, a little lost – what if we held that like an old friend or teacher, one we don’t like that much, but who has value, often way after they’re gone?

Since I was a child I’ve felt a sadness, way deep in my bones, sometimes. It’s the sadness of knowing I will most likely live on this planet without my mother. Without my dad. And that is how it is supposed to be. If all goes well, if all goes absolutely perfectly, my kids will watch me pass on and away and that will be that. That’s it. That’s the order.

Wrapped up in the beauty of my daily texts with the human closer to me than any other (my mom) lies the perfect truth that one day our line will be cut.

This is not a sadness that makes me unable to get out of bed. This is not a sadness that makes me unable to function, to laugh, take care of my kids. This is not a sadness that weakens my knees. This is not misery. This is not depression. And this is not clinical.

It is a feeling that makes me question. It makes me wonder what the hell we’re doing with our lives. It makes me ask myself if all these “jobs” and all this “work” and husband being gone and gathering of stuff is really what it’s about, and what kind of lies have we been sold to think that’s so, and what the hell are my kids learning in school and why haven’t I visited my sick cousin and if I look back on my life in 20 years will today make sense? Will I wish I would have seen more clearly?

Sometimes it feels insane the way we fill our days in the pursuit of, what. What? Is it weird to question that? Is it wrong?

An itch of the unfulfilled. Is that not alright? Do we need to slap a Band-Aid on that? Do we need to polish that right up to make ourselves more presentable?

And if we do, how come it is after the moments of greatest discomfort that I grow the most? My life has been a journey of discovering new ways I am wrong. New things I’m wrong about. And that fucking hurts, man. That ain’t comfortable. That’s not fun.

But if I tell people about that feeling, that itch, that sense of lack or questioning – if I admit I’m SUPER FUCKING WEIRD and disillusioned sometimes – everybody wants to swoop in and make me better. Point out the ways it’s my fault I don’t have butterflies flying out my ass all day. Pinpoint The Cause of my Occasional Distress as if some emotions are better or more valuable or tasty or good or right than others.

As if good, enlightened, grown up people have good enlightened grown up emotions, and then there’s the rest of us with our defective, unpleasant ones.

(Read some Liz Gilbert or hike the Pacific Crest Trail or do SOMETHING good grief! Nobody likes the unenlightened!)

Fuck that.

I don’t choose to live that way, and I don’t think we’ve done anything wrong if we feel really lost sometimes. I don’t think we’ve failed our families or ourselves if we get down and lose it occasionally. I don’t think an ache of sadness or WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING HERE stands too far apart from an ache of joy and I think they both teach, guide, drag along.

And maybe pain even more so.

In other words, friend, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you. Even when you’re jacked up.

I don’t think it means you “hate your life.” It don’t think it means you aren’t grateful for what you have. I don’t think it means you need to be fixed sewed up or remade. It could mean any of these things or all these things but mostly I think it means you are human.

Mostly it means we are human.

I wonder if that could ever be enough. I wonder if that could ever be good enough for my kids and you, world, and if you could stop trying to fix that which makes you uncomfortable, or, perhaps, very sad.

Perhaps you and I, we can try letting that be, that broken, and see what happens then.

I’m thinking love, again.

I’m thinking truth. I’m thinking the sadness won’t sit like a black tar wound in your gut because you can’t say it out loud (they’ll say you aren’t doing life right. And one should always, if at all possible, do life right).

They’ll tell you you’re wrong.

I want to tell you that I know you’re alright. And if you’re not, you can tell me that too. And I don’t want to fix you. I want you broken and torn up and super fucking weird and even a little hypocritical and contrary and I want to love you anyway and just kind of be your friend because maybe we can learn together, alongside the outside feeling distant, until we look back and wonder when it was exactly we were remade.

Sewn up.

And maybe even made more whole.

I consider myself a rational person. Generally, in arguments, I’m the one constructing bullet-proof logical defenses of my ego. Err I mean “point.” If the person I’m with is crying or engaging in some other sort of extreme emotional reaction I usually look at them rather alarmed and wish they’d stop so we could get back to the logical portion of the evening, where I’m more comfortable.

Or I’m yelling and flailing wildly, which is how I do sadness.

Alright, fine. I am irrational, but pretty much only with family. Family has the ability to bring the crazy RIGHT UP TO THE MOTHERFUCKING SURFACE with me, but it’s because I love them more than the rest of you (sorry) and since they’ve got my heart all wrapped up in their chest hairs (just leave me alone with my metaphors), they affect me on a level others cannot. I think this is normal.

“Normal.” Whatever.

My point is I’m a somewhat rational, thoughtful, reasonable human who only loses her shit around her kids, mother and husband. Winning, in other words.

In public, I don’t look for fights and I’m not confrontational and usually I just want to eat the triple-cream brie in peace.

You know, at parties. I want to eat the brie in peace, not argue with you about guns. We should stop shooting each other. That’s my opinion. There. Pass the salami.

I don’t waltz out of rooms or scream and yell or demand that you get the fuck out of my house because your opinions and insights make me want to fold up in a corner and weep for humanity. I realize you don’t really affect me, and I can always lambaste you later on my blog, so I focus on appreciating you for something good (like maybe your kids are cute, or you have nice boots, or love to sing. I love singing too!).

In other words, I don’t freak the fuck out when people annoy me.

Unless I’m on Facebook.

But only sometimes. Sometimes I’m okay. Sometimes Facebook removes my brain upon log-in. But I never know which it’s going to be which seems totally unfair because if you’re going to act irrationally there should at least be some warning for it.

Oh wait. That MAY not make sense. Whatever.

The question is: Why do I repeatedly act in irrational ways on Facebook that never end well? For funnies? Okay. Except it’s not fun.

It’s never fun. It’s never once been fun ever.

“Hey Janelle, let’s try that again because maybe THIS TIME it will be fun.”

For example:

The Rage Unfriend: We’ve been friends for a few months. I don’t know you very well, but you seem fine. You like cats and roses. But then yesterday you shared Matt fucking Walsh’s “essay” about how Planned Parenthood murders children and none of their other services matter and that is such a fucking stupid thing to say because HOW DOES WOMEN’S REPRODUCTIVE HEALTH NOT MATTER YOU FUCKING OMG and I have to unfriend you. Immediately. I want to block your ass. I want to unfriend you, lecture you for 9 hours, and call your mother. Wait. No. I do not want to call your mother.

Now, this all makes sense in the moment. I don’t want Matt Walsh in my newsfeed. I don’t even want to come face-to-face with the reality that people READ the man let alone use him as the embodiment of their perspectives. And if you’re interested in blotting out Planned Parenthood we clearly don’t have much in common, and you’re not my cousin sister aunt grandma so WHY ARE WE FRIENDS? Let’s not be friends.

But then again (a day later), I realize: Really, Janelle, this person was just sharing her opinions. There was no threat to you. Not real or imagined. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing. Why unfriend because your politics don’t align? Know thy enemies, asshole.

You could have just unfollowed her and gotten the same result.

BUT it’s so damn satisfying in the moment.

Actually, you know what? Fuck it. One cannot be expected to thrive emotionally in the face of “none of Planned Parenthood’s services matter.”

Okay, but this one. This one is real:

The Distant Family Member Unfriend. The evolution of our “friendship” inside my head:

• Day 1: Oh “so and so” I saw at that family party wants to be friends. Okay. Accept request.
• Day 14: Wow, she writes some really unfortunate shit.
• Day 30: Wait. Trump? Nope. Unfollow.
• Day 45: Please stop commenting on how I can improve my parenting.
• Day 45.5: You have been banished to “acquaintance” setting.
• Year 365: Damn, why do I ever publish anything publicly? There she is again.
• Year 2: Did you just? No you didn’t. You did not do that. You did that. Unfriend.
• 47 seconds later: OH FUCK WHAT AM I GOING TO DO AT THE FAMILY BBQ NEXT WEEK?

Damn you Janelle. A way better option would have been to NOT BE A FUCKING LOON and just let the distant-family-member flow across your FB feed a few times a year and pretend it isn’t happening or repeat a peaceful mantra or stack rocks or something.

But I can’t because I need that moment of satisfaction. I NEED IT.

There are more:

The Rage Block. I’m not afraid of you but I hate you so thoroughly I must block you because unfriending is insufficient to express my rage. Somehow, I feel like I’m DOING something by blocking you. Like I’m really letting you have it. I find satisfaction in the idea of you trying to find me and being like “I can’t find her!” And then realizing…wait. Right. Oh yeah. Nobody cares.

The Heartfelt Discussion with Total Strangers. I feel strongly on this topic so I’m going to share my deep feelings and well-thought-out perspectives, to which Facebook responds: “I’d like to beat you with my barren uterus you fucking cunt.” (That’s a direct quote.) Thanks for getting me. I feel good about this.

The Logical Argument with People’s Logical Fallacies:

• You: If people would behave the cops wouldn’t have to shoot them.
• Me: That doesn’t make sense. One doesn’t prove the other.
• You: Yes it does. Cops only shoot people who are misbehaving so if people don’t misbehave they won’t get shot.
• Me: But you can’t explain a problem with the problem. It is possible that cops shoot people even if they aren’t misbehaving.
• You: No.
• Me: What do you mean, “no?”
  You: You’re a cop-hater. My dad was a cop. I KNOW COPS.
• Me: Okay but the presence of helpful, law-abiding police officers doesn’t negate the possibility of cops who shoot people unnecessarily.
• You: You liberals hate everybody. Why don’t you go back to the country you came from?
• Me: Wait. What. Okay.

Why do I waste my time? Why? Why? Why do I torture myself with mental acrobats leading only to existential wasteland (okay so maybe I’m a tiny bit dramatic) and why click on the story about the baby being put in a microwave so I cry about it off and on for two days straight and question everything I’ve ever known to be true and real?

Why click on the lost-kid story or the killed-tiger story or the latest from Donald IMAFUCKINGFASCIST Trump or anything from the “#AllLivesMatter” crew (seriously just go home with that crap)? The Wendy Williams boobs are for sex only intellectual shit-show? ONE MORE MEME TELLING ME TO GET SOME ME TIME BECAUSE I’M WORTH IT. Gahhhhhhh why am I here get me outta here.

Why? Does Facebook remove my brain? Do I like pain? Maybe I like pain.

I should get off. I can’t get off.

Because cat videos, newborns, and you.

Oh, so it’s your fault. Good. I feel better.

Now excuse me while I hop on over to my hate-follows on Instagram.

********

I teach better than I manage my emotions on Facebook.

Join me for my February writing workshop.

And btw, there are only 5 spots left and this is the only evening version I’ll be teaching of this in 2016.