I wish I could write. Not just here, though I'm happy to be doing something, anything. I mean really write. I wish I could pour it out and wonder where it came from afterwards. I know it would help me. I blame it on limited time, but that seems like a cop-out. If I wanted to write, wouldn't I make the time? The same thing is true of drawing cartoons. I have an idea, but don't get my pencils (Tyrant Racist Uneducated Misogynist Pedophile is the idea; I dream of creating a design and silk screening tee-shirts).
I am feeling profoundly sad. I am mourning my mother, and she's still here. I am thinking of my father as Spring, Easter and his 99th birthday approach. I think of myself, and others perceive me, as above average in brain power. It's not as if I'm naive, I mean I've always known how life is...but still, I feel profoundly sad about my parents, about this cruel march of time.
The horrible political leadership and the various immoral policies they are pushing doesn't help.
March 30 was the 5th anniversary of little Rosie's death. 😪