Tuesday’s Blurbs …
I’m a firm believer in voting. Even after some of you finish your “it’s all rigged anyway” argument, I still want to know why you didn’t vote. My argument is, “so what if it is rigged?” Nothing will change the fact that blacks, and all people, have AND still die and fight for the right to vote. Too often, having a voice is a not a right, but a privilege. So whether or not you believe your voice can be a deciding factor, I still think you owe it to your ancestors to cast a ballot whenever you can. Voting is a first world problem I can get behind.
I think I’ve re-injured my ankle. I can’t even begin to tell you how traumatic this is for me. Last year, after 31 years of being an able bodied, “clumsy, yet never been hurt or ever felt my weight even though I’m obese” person, I fell and severely sprained my ankle. This injury changed my life. For the first time, ever, I felt my body when I walked. Suddenly, my lack of athleticism mattered, because I was at the mercy of my own clumsiness, often having to painfully catch myself on the crutches before tripping. And, almost immediately, every ill advised eating decision I ever made literally weighed on me as I shuffled uncomfortably along on crutches. Basically, I was all fucked up. And now, there’s a chance I’m right back where I started. Heaven help me. PIMP DOWN!!!
Years ago, my relationship was on life support. Not even a desperate shopping spree to load my girlfriend up with her favorite things could save us. Not long after, we cut the cord and began dating other people. However, there was something inside of me that couldn’t entirely let go. Perhaps it was that I loved her so much. More than likely, it was that I was an immature, selfish, butthead that wanted my girlfriend back the minute I saw her happy with someone else. Either way, I concocted a plan to get her back. Of course it was poorly thought out and destined to fail, because truthfully, neither one of us were really interested in rekindling the flame. I won’t bore you with talk of my desperate attempts at romance, though the Valentine’s Day gift of towering balloons, cheese and wine was quite the spectacle. Nor will I recap the painful lunch where I let her know she needed to let the “new boo” go. What I will do, instead, is take this time out to say “Ted Cruz.”