I’m sitting here fucking vibrating with disgust and admittedly impotent fury over the events of the left over the last week, most poignantly the last few days with regards to the mass coordinated censorship and deplatforming of the president and his allies.
Last night’s actions of Amazon (Google and Apple) to kick Parler (a twitter alternative) off of their hosting service was the last straw. I woke up this morning and deregistered my 3 kindles, my 2 amazon echoes, and my amazon FireTV box.
I deleted my audible account, my goodreads account, wiped my payment data and addresses from amazon itself before deleting my account there as well.
You have to have a line. Maybe it’s a petty gesture. Don’t care. That’s an easy line.
“But dude, you’re on facebook of all things.”
I have so many ad blockers and anti-tracking measures in place that facehole doesn’t get a dime from me. I use it on one browser dedicated to only facebook on one laptop.
But the amount of money I’ve spent at Amazon over the last 22 years is…well, let’s be honest, it’s multiple hundreds of thousands of dollars.
The only REAL sting I’ll feel (aside from possibly yelling to my kitchen “Alexa, what’s the weather? Oh shit, right.” over the next couple weeks) is the audible exclusive books. But…where there’s a will and a newly minted disregard for legality, there’s a way.
I was at the end of that process (dammit…it already worked. You’ll see what I mean in a couple/few paragraphs) and bouncing back and forth on social media outlets (you know, those that fucking remain) when I realized “dude, you’re too charged up for this shit. Get the laptop and go to Smokey.”
So I started bopping around my house packing my backpack (laptop, glasses, etc.) when my brain went back to a girl I get along with at Johnathan’s who I haven’t seen in a long time. I didn’t quite blow it. But I didn’t strike while the iron was hot either.
I texted one of my friends who works there:
“I caught myself missing Kathy. I wonder what that nutty chick has been up to.” She’s…nutty. But she’s really good. And admittedly I kinda wanna see her naked.
“Where’ve you been? She’s here ALL the time. She’s in this toxic relationship with a womanizing redneck. They break up every time they’re here.”
I was immediately nauseous. I’m not going to air her laundry (or her real name) here. But I get it. I understand why that shit happens. I watch it all the time.
I texted my friend back that it was a strange thing to be the kind of person who watches those things go on and sees the future of it all clear as day. It really reinforces my identity as an outsider.
Her message came in as I was hitting send on that one. “It won’t last.”
I grabbed my bag, walked out the back door and it was quiet. There was no internet. None of the nonsense was happening. Just a few snowflakes starting to fall against the backdrop of my back yard and I smiled.
It lasted for the drive over. Coming in the cigar lounge they had the news on and the usual suspects were glued to fox, watching the Parler CEO talking and my blood pressure immediately tripled.
I set everything up, bought a few cigars and a couple bottles of Diet Dr. Pepper (my preferred cigar accompaniment) and got RIGHT back on to twitter and facehole, you know….to check.
Yeah that didn’t do me any good. At about a half hour in I realized I was just fucking vibrating with fury. The following conversation insued in my brainbox:
“Dude you’ve got to write. You’ve got to open the damned wordprocessor and just type SOMEthing. Even if it’s just how fucking mad you are.”
“God Dammit NO. I’m furious. I don’t WANT to calm the fuck down.”
“You know better. Open Q10.”
Ten minutes of ragescrolling later.
On my way over I’d been listening to the audio version of The Antidote, which is a great little book for people who are sick of self-help pablum blowing sunshine up your ass. The 20 minute segment I listened to on the way over was the beginning of the author’s interview with Eckhart Tolle, who says that our identity isn’t our thoughts. And since our thoughts exist as a reaction, almost an abrasion against our senses that identifying with our thoughts creates an impossible scenario where that with which we identify at (almost) the most primitive way is fundamentally built on conflict. THAT portion of ourselves can, by definition, never be at peace.
All of that came to mind as I sat here and fumed petulantly at myself, knowing better about being all Kirk in The Final Frontier:
It sounds great, and there’s absolutely an element to it that’s as true as anything ever said. But…it’s also a lie.
Well there’s only one thing to write about then, isn’t there.
I tweeted, and opened Q10.
A few paragraphs in….yeah, I felt better. Always. It ALways works. Every time. It’s perfectly reliable. (I marked the moment parenthetically above.)
My attitudes to those things that have my Irish up haven’t changed. But the primary identification with my rage reached its temporal end.
And sure, the triple play of “Did I miss the opportunity?”, “Dude you dodged a bullet”, “You’re just trying to make yourself feel better.” re: Kathy (name changed to protect…me) is still warring in its little warren in the back of my mind, the truth being that it’s a clear combination of all three. Fair enough. But it’s not causing me undue consternation, not at the moment anyway.
But at least I’ve blown out the lines enough to write about what I CAME here today to write about.