It’s a Dog Eat Dog World and I’m Wearing Milkbone Underwear

My friends in Boston – including one who was just two blocks away from the finish line, she described it as “wtf, was that a cannon?” – are safe and accounted for. Don’t get nuts because this is only a figure of speech, but thank god.

The more time I spend on the Internet (particularly on Tumblr, look I can’t help that I like cat pictures and sometimes porn), the more I realize that many of the people who follow me are a shade too young to remember 9/11 very accurately. They might have dim recollections and know what us old folks mean when we talk about it, but there is a certain place of my heart-brain connection that remembers on a visceral level, and that is something that’s very difficult to communicate. Obviously what happened today in Boston was on a slightly less horrifically grand scale, but for the first few hours, I was reminded of that same sickening sense of anxiety, the same helplessness and worry for the people I knew, the same frustration at the lack of information followed by an abundance of misinformation.

It doesn’t help that the Cryptkeeper and other women in my office listen to the Fox News radio channel, a monkey pirate station staffed by evil alarmist fucktards who seemed to delight in replaying audio footage of people screaming and also repeating that a Saudi suspect was in custody. Which turned out to be untrue, by the way, something I suspected and related to my coworkers, most of whom were already declaring it an act of Middle Eastern terrorism. Forgive me for my haughty “told you so” moment, but I think it was deserved, just as I think I also deserve to just sit there with my head in my hands, wondering why so many people in so many places are just terrible.

After that, I want to remind myself that I am never ever safe, and that any illusions to the contrary provided by my own ego or relatively comfortable existence in a relatively comfortable corner of the world are false. Then I want to have a good cry when I think about the runners who allegedly continued running to the nearest hospital in order to give blood, and I’ll blubber “those noble exhausted bastards” until I fall asleep with some ice cream in one hand and a beer in the other.

And eventually this feeling will die down, just like it did before and probably quicker, not just because there are no bodies falling from the sky on video loop this time but also because I’ve done it before and I remember how it goes.

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About erineph

I'm Erin. I have tattoos and more than one cat. I am an office drone, a music writer, and an erstwhile bartender. I am a cook in the bedroom and a whore in the kitchen. Things I enjoy include but are not limited to zombies, burritos, Cthulhu, Kurt Vonnegut, Keith Richards, accordions, perfumery, and wearing fat pants in the privacy of my own home.
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