There might be some new competition for the worst year of my life.
2020, you’re off to a bang.
1998, you were a festering piece of shit and I thought you’d hold the tiara forever.
2016 gave it a good run for its money. Ditto 2004. 1997? Nightmare.
But 2020, one day before the Ides of March, you’re the big winner.
My mother says I’m pushing people away. I think it’s because I stopped taking the hormones that made me nice. The hormones that made me nice, unfortunately, gave me migraines every day for four months. I’d rather be a clear-headed bitch than a bitch in agony. I have fifteen prescriptions. I can’t really add anymore because then I think my liver will explode?
Turning into enough of an angry bitch that I accidentally forget I’m supposed to not tell my deep actual truth about things?… or being in so much pain I wanna fuckin’ die? What a sad story. Here, enjoy this picture of Eric Roberts kissing me.
Seriously if you’re ever at a random con, and Eric Roberts is there, and you are a fan of even one Eric Roberts movie (in my case, Best of the Best), spend the ten bucks and do the photo op. Lowkey the best fun I’ve had at a con. Everyone in line was like, “I’m not a superfan or anything, but I liked him in ______.” And the thing is, Eric Roberts has done so many freakin’ movies, everyone had a different answer. And then you went around this little tent and suddenly everyone emerging was like,
“WOW! Eric Roberts is amazing! He is the coolest guy EVER! I am now going to BUY ALL HIS MOVIES!”
And everyone in like was like, “what? Really? This was a $10 autograph.”
But then it was my turn and I wheeled in on the crip scooter I rented for the day and Eric was all, HOW’D YA EARN YOUR WHEELS! And I said, “Oh, I have MS.” And he hugged me and said, “oh I’m so sorry darling, but I think you’re simply amazing!”
LOL, What? Why? Who cares? HE WAS SO NICE!
He shot two pics. A normal smile and the kiss on the cheek. I emerged from the tent also raving about Eric Roberts. “He really IS THE BEST OF THE BEST! JULIA WHOMST?” I asked the lady printing the photos if I could buy both. She said it’d be an extra ten bucks. About ten people around me flipped out and exclaimed, “WE CAN BUY BOTH?!?!” And then everyone bought both.
I didn’t meet Eric Roberts tonight. I met a Nazi. I could sense it when I looked at him. His aesthetic. His hairstyle. The way he carried himself like he felt himself a part of the master race. The way he laughed when I stumbled, because cripples stumble. I looked at him, because I never know when to shut the fuck up and said,
“Are you a Nazi?”
Within half a breath, he was inches away from my face, a bottle of pepper spray an inch from my face, a smirk on his lips.
And then he winked.
I’ve never been so scared in my entire life.
I walked away, but I did tell him to go back to Germany.
I turned and said, “you were really going to pepper spray a crippled woman on chemo?” He had a shit-eating grin on his face. “Yes.” Nothing would have given him more pleasure.
I reported him to his security.
I’ll report him to the hospital.
I’ll report him to the local news media.
I’ll find out his name.
I’m going to ruin him.
This is not his fucking country.
Michelle Obama said, “when they go low, we go high.” Maybe that applies to human beings. Nazis aren’t people. But I don’t really feel it applies much to humans, either. I’m okay. I’m gonna be okay. I’m in no danger, but the context of the story really actually makes it worse, but I won’t get into that.
People tell me to stop telling Trumpers to move to fucking Moscow when I see their bumper stickers.
What, like I’m gonna change their mind? Oh, they might go home and feel justified? Who fucking cares? They’d feel that anyway. They’d feel that watching my 40 year old fat ass take their handicapped parking space they were gunning for when they leave a note or make a comment that if I lost weight, I could park normally. “Yeah, but I’d still have MS, you fucking asshole,” is typically the response.
Trumpers, Nazis, they’re all the same. They can’t be reasoned with. I don’t give a fuck about their sob stories, economic or not. Juggalos come out of the same impoverished midwest and all those crazy bastards are about is partying and have a song that repeatedly cries “FUCK YOUR REBEL FLAG.” Economic anxiety my taint. Racists, Nazis, pedophiles, separatists, Nationalists, alt-right, whatever kind of bullshit catchphrase they use now–they’re not fixable. There’s no “seeing their side of the story.” There’s no reaching through. There’s no income inequality magic bullet, because you know what? These people would never be happy with equality. Class consciousness would upset them. Make the same money as a women, or worse, a woman who isn’t white? They’d never go for it.
Marx didn’t anticipate much beyond the price of corn and the making of pins an capitalism being prone to chaos. The world has changed. Fixing the economy won’t fix Nazis or Racists or Trumpers, because it was never about the money, stupid. It was never about being nicer to them, either. They didn’t feel “neglected.” Academic studies have been done on the 2016 election. It was the racism. And the sexism. And the racism. And the sexism. Science has made that conclusion.
Essentially, it was about the hatred. Always. It was that wink from a Nazi who desperately wanted a chance to watch me scream and suffer.
2020 is the worst year of my life. I never met a real-life-overt-wants-to-kill-me-while- looking-me-in-the-eyes-Nazi before. I never had physical pain like this before. I never felt so much like the world didn’t understand me before. I never wished so much that fucking meteor a while back had just gotten it done.