living underground in the real world

I wrote this all on my phone at 1 AM last night

And I woke up fifty times more angry than I was when I wrote it, when I saw my Facebook feed full of friends being all proud they voted for a presidential candidate who IS NOT ON THE LEFT. Maybe they are, these friends of mine, but this candidate (who, just to be clear, I think is lovely and darling and, truthfully, quite sexy) IS NOT a leftie. He’s a centrist, at best. A rightist centrist. We all know this, right? But we call ourselves liberals, and we vote for him.

THIS IS NOT NEWS WHY AM I SO MAD ABOUT IT RIGHT NOW.

Soundtrack to today. MEDIOCRITY RULES, DUDE. 

Line that will be running through my head as I glide through the meh waters of a Dem-infested election party tonight: “You’re cool, but I’m right, so
I’ll set the dial to “no fights.”” YEP.

AND ANOTHER THING. Before we get into the 1 AM rant.

WHAT IS UP WITH PEOPLE IN MY TOWN WITH OBAMA STICKERS ON THEIR GAS TANKS.

ARE THEY INTO PERFORMANCE ART OR ARE THEY JUST FUCKING STUPID

PLS ANSWER ASAP THX

ALSO I WORE A CUTE OUTFIT YESTERDAY

When I came into work Maresa complimented my lipstick and I said I’d just randomly found it in my bag (Lush, A Million Kisses) and we figured out it was hers. Mine is It Started with a Kiss, and where is it, I wonder? It’s not vegan though, and A Million Kisses is, so next time I’ma get that one. Also not vegan: my thrifted boots. The leg warmers are from, horror of horrors, Urban Outfitters, which I bought one day when I was walking in the city with freezing legs. The tights are FLEECE-LINED LEGGINGS. They are little miracles for your legs. The skirt is a velvety little darling I snagged at a consignment store. It goes with a red velvet blazer which makes me look like a chic Mrs. Claus. Maresa gave me the sweater. It woulda looked better with a bra. Underneath I’m wearing a Gillian Welch t-shirt, but you can’t see that. I have a box of them in my garage, so I wear them a lot as undershirts.

RANT:

I wonder if people who vote for Obama just because Romney is so much worse also stay in jobs they hate because they could be working at worse jobs. Do they stay with lovers they no longer love because they could be with terrible lovers, instead of mediocre lovers?

I wonder how deep this race to the bottom will take us.

I wonder if we’ve lost our collective imagination, or if we ever even had one.

I kind of think, and this is really weird and reveals this bizarre thing: deep down, guys? I kind of, like, actually *am* proud to be an American, just like that song we all make fun of says. I kind of think our founding fathers–those slaveholding wife beating fucks–had about a million times more imagination than, say, the typical right-leaning Democrat (that is to say: the typical Democrat) who’s so earnestly hoping and truly believing that if Obama’s granted a second term by our corporatist overlords life will be fundamentally better–this middle class person with a good heart who puts so much faith in one person and doesn’t really understand (or care? or both?) about things like the House and Senate and the limitations of Presidential power and how no Republican’s going to take away Roe, because the strategy of eroding it little by little, state by state, is working so splendidly (and also because a Republican without a toolbox of wedge issues is, well, minus a couple sex scandals and a thicker war chest, basically a Democrat).

I think our founding fathers would ruefully shake their heads at that person, and wonder why we haven’t realized that things weren’t supposed to be like this.

Revolution was supposed to be THE American thing. In revolution we were born, but somewhere along the way we forgot how to revolt and now even breathing the word will put you on a list. We all live in fear of being put on a list. Hence, the race to the bottom. We’re given awful candidates, and we dutifully campaign for them with all our small-minded hearts.

It’s all so horrifyingly sad.

It’s made me so disgustingly bitter.

Small-mindedness’ll do that to a person, I guess.

It makes me feel really weird to admit it, but I want the best of everything, always. And I want to be the best at everything, too. It feels really American to me, to want the best and want to be the best. I’m an anarchist (I want to be in control of my own destiny, that’s the word for people like that) who’s proud to be an American, I guess you could say. A radical leftist impatiently waiting for you to join me in the easiest revolution possible: voting for the candidate who best represents your interests.

I want to be the best, I really really do. I want my country to be the best. But I wonder if that’s even a possibility any more.

I wonder if I will get kicked out of the election night party I’m going to tomorrow before it even starts.

OK, no time to edit this, got to take a shower, FUCKING VOTE, and get to work all in one hour.

OH WAIT, but Jacob looked cute yesterday too:

His patience for outfit photos is not that great. Shoes: Vegan Wares, which he got in Australia. Jacob does not wear leather shoes because he is a superior person. Pants: some Japanese raw denim he got on tour and refuses to wash because all the boys on tour decided it’s bad for raw denim SO HE PUTS THEM IN THE FREEZER INSTEAD. T-shirt, shirt, and cardigan: thrifted. Coat: Vaute Couture!

JACOB’S OUTFIT IS THE REVOLUTION.

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