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40 Fucks

Fuck this.

This is a mind dump. My soul’s sump pump.

Fuck Donald Trump. Fuck Donald Trump. Fuck Donald Trump. Fuck Donald Trump.


Fuck that dude and his idiot-child philosophy. Fuck the idolatry of his toxic masculinity. Fuck the part of him that lives inside me. Fuck the America that birthed his breed. Fuck the baby-men, the foxes who see the world as a house of hens. Fuck their fear, their blame’s spears, their resent for losing ground. Fuck the narrative to which they are bound.

Fuck the wolves that cry “sheep!” The future they weave is bleak.

Fuck countries and boundaries. Fuck their anthems, their stockpiles of splitting atoms. Fuck all the flags and their Risk playing fads. Fuck chessboards and overlords. Fuck swords and the arming of words. Fuck intervention’s weighted gloves and bombs delivered on the backs of doves. Fuck the patriotic fallacies, phallic inadequacies. Fuck empire. Fuck power’s insatiable desire.

Fuck Facebook. Fuck me. Fuck the social media insanity, my hypocrisy, my lack of integrity. Fuck the fighting, the in-your-face shouting, the “liking.” The shaming. The mindless sharing. Fuck loneliness, the mothlight attraction of instant gratification. Fuck the vampire wind blowing through the screen in front of me.

Fuck the gatekeepers and what they believe. Fuck their mindset-sieves, their collection, accumulation of make-believe. Where everything’s fine and consequences vanish by design. Where Mad Max thinking is liberating, a noble aim to achieve.

Fuck everything. Every tree, every sea. The bees! The dirt beneath me! Give me a daily hatchet-habit, give me car keys, shopping sprees, jeans with pre-ripped knees. Give me things! Give me a job breaking the Beam! Make it easy! Keep me busy, keep me from seeing the bleeding. Make existence hungry for meaning, make it shallow, make creation narrow, keep my mind fallow.

Fuck familial history. Fuck my parenting abilities. Fuck my not knowing, my worry, my self-absorbed discounting. Fuck the struggling, the muddling, the doubt-filled wallowing.

Fuck the editor strangling me. I’m not free. Hounded. Rounded. Locked. Impounded. Fuck that guy sharing the same chair as me.

Fuck my cowardly half-assing, the ledge on which I’m standing where I can’t stop asking,

Fuck. Can I? Will I?”

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