Thrown Out

The three CDs with all the songs that I collected for the 25th anniversary party got thrown out without being listened to.  They weren’t even given to the tech-savvy nephew by the niece throwing the party

They decided “to go another way,” even though they didn’t even know what they had.

I walked out of the house where they were previewing the slideshow I suggested and for which I found the images.

It’s not that big a deal.  But a car ride with This American Life telling about how the Johns Hopkins study of civilan casualties in Iraq — now estimated at 600,000 souls — was dismissed by a quote from a guy who never read it and isn’t a statistican, well, that is a big deal.

Much of my thin skin is this rooted in this election cycle.   Our local House race is filthy, with an incumbent Reuplican who loves lobbyists and has some issue with his wife that required a police visit, is banging the hell out of a fresh faced Democrat. 

My father loves the natter bang bong where these partisans duke it out, so it fills the room in which I sleep.

I know it’s this fundy shit that leaves me battered, which is why I didn’t go off the handle at my work being thrown out without consideration, which is still bad.  If you don’t want to be dissapointed, just remember not to do anything for anyone, no matter how much you want to give something special.

I am as tight as the smile on Lynne Cheney’s face.

And it feels bad, real bad.

4 thoughts on “Thrown Out”

  1. My sister’s abusive friend sends me a pettition about one poor dog who was abused in Alberta.

    She doesn’t mention the unrelated people with the same last name as the accused abuser who have been harassed & threatened, their property damaged, due to the zealots who want to venge this dog.

    And the 600,000 civilians dead in Iraq, or those in Darfur or….

    Well, they are humans. They should have fended for themselves. Beyond the scope and capacity of concern, sorry.

  2. My mother asked if I was wearing jeans to the party.

    “It’s work, this is my work uniform,” I replied.

    She huffed, shook her head and turned away from me.

    “Do you want me to change my pants?” I asked.

    “Don’t do it for me!” she shrieked.

    Of course — she wants my compliance without her responsibility. Crap, pure crap.

    I have party clothes, but am not able to wear them.

    Now I am out of my androgynous jeans and in gendered slacks, and expected to be a charming whatever.

    Eat shit and die.

  3. My father, who was there, just tried to recontextualize this CD incident for me.

    It’s sweet of him to try, I guess, but whenever he does this, he opens up an agrument about the subject again, which does nothing to put it in context. In fact, since he can’t let go until he wins, it just inflames the event even more.

    It’s always bad when people try to be nice and hurt you more, because you are hurting and you have to suck it up and appreciate the effort.

    Always, always bad.

  4. Just to note, the only music I heard at the party was Dan Fogelberg’s “Longer Than,” their wedding song, and James Taylor’s “How Sweet It Is (To Be Loved By You) ” which were used as the soundtrack for my nephew’s wedding photo montage.

    Of course, since it was on continuous play, I heard them over and over again.

    “I can’t actually watch Dinah Shore,” said Oscar Levant. “I’m a diabetic.”

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