There are moments on a daily basis that people actually wouldn’t believe occur to the same person over and over unless you spent an extended period of time with me. For example, one of my best friends in high school spent a lot of time with me. Small town. Limited things to do. Lots of time. As we grew up and grew apart, we still touch base at least a few times a year. He always asks how I’m doing then eventually I will share a story of something and he laughs and says “It literally has never stopped with you has it? Your life should be a reality show.” When my admin started she spent the first few weeks working out of my house. She was definitely with me at least 4 hours a day 4 days a week in my home. This was the month in between office spaces when we were still fully remote. As I stumbled through the house one day and ran to my car because i was running late for a doctor’s appointment…she looked at me said, “Wow, you really are a total hot mess in a super funny but also somewhat unbelievable way. Like people who just meet you would never know.” I proceeded to run back into the house three times because I forgot my keys, forgot my phone, couldn’t find my phone, searched the car, came back in to find my phone again, then eventually found it in the car.

Tonight was one of those moments. I brought the boys to their first official karate class. We did an intro session on Saturday just them and the instructor. They of course loved it, are obsessed with it, and want to be black belts. I’m not social. I talk to people all day about their deep emotional traumas. When I leave work I’m not into making small talk with Moms. 1. They are usually straight. 2. In my town it’s 50/50 that they support #45 and think we have a fake President. 3. I’m usually just freaking tired.

My own Mom is one of those people who will chat with someone in line at the grocery store or anywhere for that matter. Then she asks all these questions, and smiles…and yeah literally the opposite of me as I slink off to find a freaking self check out so I can talk to no one. Sometimes she asks me follow up questions about an interaction I have with some one and then I just stare at her and then she remembers that I in no way went further in the conversation then I had to.

This week I had to sit on the soccer sidelines and go to karate class. I have somehow become this Mom of creatures who are social and like other kids and stuff. I don’t know where they come from.

I’m also a business owner. So I’m on all the time. I get a call from the landlord who is discussing my latest request which is insane. I own that. I make insane requests. He laughs at me. He realizes I’m serious. Then we put our heads together and figure it out. I’m a good and profitable tenant.

Anyways. I get the phone call, I’m walking outside, I have a mask on so I can’t see below me, I have my AirPods in so I’m all discombobulated anyway because my freaking phone keeps putting the sound on my phone then back to my AirPods and I’m looking at my phone, trying to rip the mask off as I push open the door…and then epically fall.

There’s a step.

I have on flip flops. I’m holding my brand new iPhone which I do NOT let drop on the ground can I get an amen! So my left hand was on the door handle, my right hand held the phone, my mouth was open behind the mask going “AHHHHH” my body swung, literally swung, with the door, my flip-flops got all bent and crazy, my ass did not hit the ground, I was actually able to stay in a squat like position. But it was intense and there was rain and the door swinging and my body flying around.

So inside were a few parents who clearly, I mean clearly, saw the whole thing because I actually held eye contact with one of them as it was happening. Then the rest of the parents were sitting in running cars facing said door and sidewalk I just fell onto. Then there was my poor landlord John. He also probably thinks I am not okay. Because unfortunately he has spent enough time with me on the phone designing my current office space, and now designing our add on space, that he knows random crazy shit is going to happen while we talk.

I literally scream/yell. Pull myself up. Realize that no parent is going to ask if I’m okay. I am also cracking up because if any of my friends were there they would have been breaking my balls hardcore. I finally get John the landlord into by Airbuds. After being like “Can you hear me” a million times, and he’s trying not to laugh at the chaos of the last two minutes, he was like “Uh yeah, I could hear you the whole time.” silence. Me cracking up. “Dude I literally just fell out of my kids karate studio. I can’t.” He sighs like he’s not surprised at all this is happening and then asks about my most recent completely irrational and costly update I requested to the new space we are designing.

The problem with AirPods and holding the iPhone anywhere is that I can talk with my hands. I’m a big walker and talker with my hands. I’m not Italian. I’m Irish and Swedish. Literally the least emotive people. But there I was. Walking and talking with my hands waving them around, running them through my massive humid induced curly hair head and trying to convince him it’s maybe not that costly or irrational. It’s maybe a six minute conversation. I am animatedly making my case the entire time after recovering from my fall.

When we hang up I stop. I look around. I realize all those parents who are sitting in their cars who saw me fall just also saw me have a very animated conversation with my hands, barefoot, because apparently at some point I kicked off my flip flops, as I paced on the sidewalk in front of the very large karate studio picture window where the parents sitting inside also had a great view.

At that point I start cracking up again. I apparently had also ripped off my mask which I picked up off the sidewalk next to my flip flops. I am obviously very passionate when I’m making a case for more things and less money after heinously falling and screaming in the beginning of our call.

With as much dignity as I could muster I put on my flip-flops. I put on my mask. I walked back inside and returned to my chair. No one said a word. Not a word. I texted my friends and told them I fell and they sent me GIFs of models walking the runway and falling. It was amazing.

I gotta be honest. I’m sore. My back and shoulders and somehow my arm took a beating. I told the boys after karate and then walking out I almost fell a second time. Damn stair. I blame the mask. But yes I’ll keep wearing it even though no one else was wearing one because Delta. Covid. Science. Blah blah blah.

My point to this rambling retelling of my epic fall out the karate door on the phone with some one who could cost or save me thousands of dollars is…be real. I am not fake. I have never hidden from any one the hot mess that I am. It’s just a matter of who I let in that sees it.

I love my life. I love my kids. I love that I can laugh at myself stumbling onto a sidewalk in the rain. Laugh at yourself. Laugh with your friends. I was going to say talk to other people at your kids sporting events, but that would be super hypocritical. Baby steps. I’m just not there yet. Oh, and always fight the good fight for seemingly irrational requests that cost a lot of money. Know your worth because I know my mine. (it’s a lot).

I read an article about what Europeans found the most shocking about America. One item was the “number of American flags. They are just everywhere.” I thought about it. I would have to agree with that assessment and until 2016 I never thought of that as a bad thing.

As I drive into work every day I pass through mostly rural communities. Many houses have flags. A few in particular have an American flag, underneath which is a “F&ck Biden” flag. I gotta be honest. That irks me. I had to reflect on it for awhile to come to a non-partisan rationale as to why it irks me.

I am the granddaughter of a World War II veteran. I am the daughter of a Vietnam veteran. My Dad also served in Utah as one of the first homeland security details for the Winter Olympics. My Dad was an epic patriot. And it was one area in life we never fought about. I respected, and still do after his death, his love of his country. One of the most meaningful moments at his funeral were three of his former Army friends showing up in dress uniform and seeking me out of the crowd. Saluting me. Asking me politely what happened to their friend and their utter dismay at finding out my Dad at the very end made it clear he did not want a military funeral.

I’m still unclear why my Dad declined what he was entitled to with more than half his life given to the military. His feelings toward the military were complicated by the men he lost in Vietnam, the men who died for him to live, and later on they were further complicated by his understanding of Agent Orange and how that impacted his health until the day he died.

My grandpa and my Dad both kept quiet about their service but they did not ever hide their pride in their service and in their country. I grew up watching them march in our Memorial Day parades. Attending military ceremonies whenever my Dad would be promoted. I visited armories with him throughout the state over my childhood and it was a normal occurrence for me to be around men and women in fatigues. When I went to work with my Dad some times I remember sitting in armories and chatting with soldiers.

When I married a woman nothing about my relationship with my Dad changed. Nothing about my relationship with the American flag changed either. I was raised to be proud of the service of my family members. My Dad served under many Presidents he disagreed with in terms of rhetoric but we did not disrespect a President in front of my Dad. We could disagree with policy and opinions but if I ever said F&*$ Bush my Dad would have slapped me in the back of my head. Because he got that even if we disagree with policy he is still the President and he is deserving of the respect of that office.

2016 changed my Dad. He was still with it enough to know that this was bad. I think that also contributed to his decision to not pursue a military funeral. He had never come against some one who disrespected the office of the President as much as he felt it was disrespected during that administration. But I still would never have used the F word in the same room as my Dad in regards to the President. No matter how much we may agree that administration was not okay. We still had some level of respect and decorum for the office.

When I drive by a flag that has the F word on it (and I swear a lot. So if it bothers me it’s bad) that not only names our current President but also is touching the American flag. Every atom of my being rebels. I feel like my Dad and Grandpa are turning in their graves. Because how disrespectful is that to our flag, our nation, their service, and the office of the President of the United States of America. That is not patriotism. That is hateful and overt disrespect to every veteran, every active service member, and every person who has held the office of the President.

After I had this heated discussion in my head about how and why this was bad, I thought well their response could be they feel the same about seeing the Pride flag with an American flag. That was a head scratcher for me. I can say that, I hear you. I get that. BUT, at the same time- the Pride flag does not disrespect the office of the President. The Pride flag creates safety and perhaps can start to acknowledge and thank all the Queer servicemen and women who have served our country just as proudly and bravely as my Dad and Grandpa. It also doesn’t place the F word in line with our flag. Our flag is a symbol of unity. To have its counterpart say F our President sews divide. It literally does the opposite of what we are supposed to feel when we see our flag.

Somehow “Patriots” have become these neo-nazi homophobic, anti-semitic people like “Proud Boys” who spew hate and division. Well I won’t live in fear of our flag. I am proud of the American flag and I challenge any one flying anything so disrespectful as F Biden next to our flag to remember our veterans. Remember the men and women who served and died under our flag. Because I remember my Dad and his pride in our country and our flag and I urge you to take the parties and politics out of our flag because all Americans are united under one flag whether we like it or not.

And listen, I may disagree with what you do and say, but I’ll defend to the death your right to do it and say it. But in this case, I’m going to call out general bad form; and hope that you can open your eyes to maybe taking things a step too far. Maybe disrespecting the American flag is actually not patriotic but in fact insulting to many fellow Americans.

Sincerely,

Irked In Rural America

In case you missed it we got kittens. This morning I didn’t have clients scheduled so I wanted to take my time and do a 9 AM yoga class. About 8:50 AM I was sipping my coffee enjoying the peace as the boys sat in the other room watching cartoons. I heard a growl. The growl of Ginsburg when she is guarding food. I turn around and there she is with a huge piece of chicken tender in her mouth that recently had been on one of my son’s plates. Yes. He wanted chicken tender for breakfast and I didn’t want to battle him on it. There are worse things for breakfast.

So her sister Scooby was sitting close by waiting for a stray piece of chicken and Ginsburg was trying to figure out how to eat the monstrous piece of chicken without dropping it from her mouth.

I sprang up and started yelling at her to put the damn chicken down. The next eight minutes are minutes of my life that I wish had been filmed by a secret camera simultaneously grateful there is no camera in our house. It involved me chasing a tiny kitten with a huge piece of chicken tender behind the couch, under the table, intermittently yelling at the boys to get away from her because she was now full on growling and I was afraid she would hurt one of them trying to guard her food.

The boys of course could not help but be completely in the way the entire time, now also yelling, about how they were scared and Ginsburg has my chicken…and so much more but I was just focused on getting to the damn cat.

I cornered her under the sink in the laundry room which was perfect for her, because she could just claw me when I tried reaching for her still yelling at her to drop the chicken and still with the boys yelling and literally running in circles in the background.

I have a lot of vacuums. Don’t judge me. I’m a clean freak and I love vacuums like I love psychiatry. (A lot). There was a long extender of one my vacuums handy (again don’t judge they are all over my house) and I grabbed it and found myself yelling at the cat while trying to get the chicken and the cat with the vacuum extender. Eventually a large portion of the chicken tender fell on the floor and I was able to get it with the vacuum arm. Ginsburg ate the rest of the piece. I was also pushing Scooby back this entire time as she wanted to get in the corner with the snarling Ginsburg and her chicken.

I got the chicken. I put it in the trash. The boys ran from Ginsburg screaming. I grabbed Ginsburg by the scruff and held her up and spoke to her about not growling at me. Ever. And not going on the table and not eating chicken…and everything else I could think of.

She was looking properly shamed as I threw out my yoga mat and connected via Zoom to my class.

I laughed to myself sitting there on my yoga mat. Because to anyone on Zoom they would see me sitting calmly on my mat with my mug of coffee. A kitten or two sitting close by. The boys intermittently walking by. No one knew the chaos of the chicken and the kitten only moments before I connected.

Gins eventually joined me on my mat for the class and has been much better behaved the rest of the day.

Later in the day I gave myself my monthly shot for my asthma and the boys watched and screamed and ran in and out of the room. I mean. I was overdue. I had to do it. Jackson eventually mustered a “Poor Mama”.

These are the moments though. These are those thirty second (or eight minute) moments that make the fabric of our family. I’ll always remember Ginsburg running around with the chicken hanging out of her mouth as the boys screamed and ran in circles. I’ll do many more shots. I usually time them after bedtime so the boys don’t see. But they have seen me struggle to breathe. They know what I deal with.

I was talking with a client recently about the time they came out to their parents as trans. There is about 5-10 seconds after some one comes out when we sit in complete terror of the reaction. It’s in the parents court. This parent in particular failed. Many do.

Mine didn’t. It’s one of my favorite memories of my parents. My Dad didn’t have Dementia. It was normal. He putzed around in the kitchen and my Mom and I sat on the couch and my Mom basically told me she had already done this with my sister so what’s the big deal. My dad asked me “So, does this mean you’re bisexual?” I cringed and laughed and said “Dad I’m not putting a label on it.” He did this thing with his hands like okay, okay, I’m just asking.

To this day I’m confident my Dad got a kick out of having two daughters married to two women and wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

It was a quick visit that night. Just an in person coming out to my parents, then I went back home to my apartment at the time. Many of my patients, friends, and my own wife don’t have this same experience. There is violence. Hate. Failure. Failure on the parents end to provide unconditional love and acceptance. Even if in future years you come around and accept your kid, I promise you, they remember your first reaction to the first time they came out.

It’s probably the most important and defining thirty seconds of your relationship with your child.

So don’t fuck it up.

What’s the right reaction you ask? What’s the right moment that makes a family? It’s me bringing Ginsburg over to my sons for them to pet her so they aren’t scared of her after seeing her growl and act totally insane over a piece of chicken. It’s them watching me do my injection. It’s me dropping what I’m doing, no matter what, when they ask me for bedtime kisses. It’s one of my best friends telling me, “You know we are going to have cis-het kids and they will be wasted on us!” because she knows that if any of our kids ever come out as anything we would hug them and tell them we love them no matter what because that’s what you’re supposed to do.

***The pic is Ginsburg staring fixedly at my yoga instructor: the picture of innocence.

Six months is a long time to be isolated. I am on a biologic agent for my asthma which puts me in an at risk category for COVID. While I tried to reassure my pulmonologist and allergist that I only get bacterial infections and viral infections seem to skip over me they both made it clear that I am at risk and not to see clients in person. For some clients this is not okay.

For me it’s been a struggle. I miss the in person contact. There are certain clients I’ve seen in person. What’s stuck out to me is those moments that feel so normal to me but when I step back and think about them they are so messed up.

Therapists across my state know that I specialize in Queer mental health. Most know either from me or through the grapevine that I myself am Queer. So when I get referrals, especially for teenagers, I know that somewhere in there will be some Queer stuff. The parents often have no clue or are pulling the ostrich.

Those are my favorites. Because there’s nothing I love better than calling out the elephant in the room.

A trans teen intake usually goes like this. Both parents and kid are in the room. Parent gives long timeline of depression and/or anxiety. Potentially some self harm. Past trials of medications. Therapy. Maybe a hospitalization. Maybe some family history of mental health. Maybe a divorce or a move, some transition that occurred that could have triggered everything.

The kid sits quietly looking aggrieved and cringey especially whenever their parent pronouns or names them. I can’t ask the kid direct questions because the parent keeps interrupting. I kick the parent out. Me and the kid.

“So what’s the story?”

“I’m trans.”

“Got it. You out to them?”

Sigh. Literally a sigh. “Yeah they don’t believe me.”

“They never use the right pronoun or name?”

“Nope.”

Sigh. Literally a sigh. “You want to be in the room or out?”

It’s that moment. When they realize I’m on their side. When they realize the trans stuff all over my office means they are actually in a space where some one will stand for them. The look I get is hope. I didn’t know how badly I missed that look until I saw it again.

I’ve agreed to do some in person intakes in the last few months, and when I have that moment. That hope. When I do some work with the parents afterward. It feels so right. Educating people not to be transphobic is not my favorite part of the job. But apparently it’s a part I’ve missed. Because the outcome, the hope, touches me. Motivates me to keep doing this work.

It’s hard work. Mental health. I hold a lot of secrets. In between my own patients I receive calls from other providers, former co-workers, former and current friends, relatives, etc. all wanting to tell me a story. All wanting some support, referrals, help. Hope.

One of my mentors always told me that she didn’t know everything but she knew how to be confident and that made people feel better and when people have the illusion they can feel better then eventually they will.

I didn’t get that at the time. But I do now. Prescribing medication is a small part of what I do. Giving hope and instilling confidence in the future is a big part of what I do. That’s been harder and harder to do in a world turned upside down by a pandemic. But I often think of that moment in Armageddon when they are flying away from the asteroid with Bruce Willis left behind. He hasn’t detonated the bomb yet and Ben Affleck says, “Harry doesn’t know how to fail.” It gets me every time. I mean literally sobbing hysterically which begins when Harry pushes Affleck into the glass elevator. Same with Titanic. I start crying during the opening credits. Because why do they show pictures of the freaking ship in the opening credits?

I digress. I like to think I’m like Harry. Not on asteroid willing to die to save my planet. But not knowing how to fail.

I’ve seen it throughout the last six months. Those little looks when Queer people feel hope. Hope for acceptance. Hope for love. Hope for their parents to use the right pronouns. Hope. It’s out there. You just have to know where to look.

***Parents****IT’S NOT A PHASE.

It’s been hard to sit and write a blog post lately. Not for lack of discussion topics. Murders. Shootings. People still thinking BLM is an anti-Blue life movement. The DNC and then the RNC. Michael Moore’s dire warnings to the Democrats to energize the base. To visit freaking Michigan. If there is one thing I will give to #45 it’s that he doesn’t like to lose and he knows how to energize a crowd (racism and white supremacy will energize a white supremacist crowd to be clear).

We reached 6 million cases. 183,000 deaths. To put that in perspective 618,222 soldiers died in the Civil War. Worcester, MA had a population in 2010 of 181K, estimates today are 183K same with Brownsville, TX. So an entire city has died.

2,977 people died in 9/11. We went to war after 9/11. Because of 2,977 deaths. Where is the war for our 183,000 who have died? Where is the fight for those lives we have lost? Who led the war after 9/11? If you don’t remember let me refresh you- the freaking White House did. It was George Bush at the time. He started a war with Iraq (which yes makes no sense because Iraq wasn’t actually responsible for 9/11…but that’s a different story). Our current white house sits back and makes no statements about 183,000 deaths. No outrage. No grief. But he wishes Ghislaine Maxwell well. So that’s nice. Let’s wish the pedophile well while your citizens are dying.

So many things. The suicide rate hasn’t been counted yet. The most recent data available is from 2018 when it was the 10th leading cause of death in the United States. Our suicide rate has risen 35% since 2003. I can tell you from working in mental health that suicides are on the rise. People are suffering. The isolation, the fear, the job loss, the evictions, isolating with homophobic and transphobic families…all the things. Any one who was trying to hold on by a thread is losing it with the pandemic.

I don’t feel the desolation of depression but I feel sad. I miss my best friend who lives in Florida who I do not know when I will be able to see her again. I feel sad for my friend here who has to re-vamp her October wedding into something different and not at all what she hoped for. I miss my extended family members who live out of state who we normally see during the Summer. The boys have gone so long without seeing some of our relatives and it blows. I crave a way of life that I’m not sure we will ever have again. Mental health is hard on a good day. Working in it during a pandemic is honestly unlike anything I ever imagined.

I’ve heard of 5 suicides in the last two months- relatives of friends or relatives of my clients. I can tell you that’s more in such a short time span than I have ever heard of before.

Two members of my extended family committed suicide- both significantly pre-pandemic- and I say this only to point out that I know all too well the scars that suicide leaves on families. Every suicide should be added to the pandemic’s death count and every grieving family member should be just as outraged at their death.

I was prioritizing front line workers like nurses and respiratory therapists but now I find myself prioritizing other mental health professionals. I’ve had more and more reach out for help. I am honored to be trusted with their care and also incredibly saddened that our profession is front lines more than any one can understand.

In many cases we are people’s only lifelines and we are struggling to stay afloat ourselves.

We are six months into a pandemic that has impacted our country far more than it needed to. We are six months in and 183k deaths deep. Our suicides won’t be officially counted for another two years. But I promise you they are here and they are rising.

This is why writing a blog post seems daunting. How do I write about our most recent parenting mishap…many of which exist…and can be broken down into one sentence- we are burned out and I reached a low when I fought with my 4 year old because he wanted broccoli but I made chicken nuggets. Yes. You read that right. I eventually sat on the floor and took some deep breaths and realized that what I thought would be a special treat was not what he wanted and why would I argue with him about wanting vegetables? Especially when we actually had broccoli in the fridge and it took me only ten minutes to cut it and steam it and serve it. I admit. Parenting low. He got the broccoli.

Another day was bad and he slammed his brother’s finger in a door. Long story. But at the end of it I went in as he was falling asleep hugged him, told him I loved him and that I know he is a good boy. He started to cry and said, “Even though I slammed his finger in the door?” And I said yes. Because even good boys do bad things sometimes we just have to learn from our mistakes.

On top of the every day stress of pandemic, election nightmare, mental health crisis related to pandemic, hurricane, tornadoes, etc. we are still trying to parent and be married and I’m trying not to dread the coming Winter. When I’m sure we will see a resurgence, I’m sure we will go on lockdown again, and who knows what else. I’m sure 2020 will come up with something fun though.

To anyone struggling please reach out for help. Things appear bleak and feel heavy but there will be an end to the pandemic. The 1918 flu ran the same timeline as COVID. Look it up. It’s actually almost exactly parallel. And by end of 1919 the restrictions and outbreak eased. We are six months in, likely six months to go. Please vote. Please vote for an administration that will lead us out of a pandemic with science. Let those 183,000 lives not have been in vain. The virus does not discriminate. But our current administration does.

Suicide Hotline: 1-800-273-8255

Quite frankly I’m disgusted with white people. What’s fascinating to me is that my posts about BLM and anti-racism are the least viewed by my Facebook followers. Y’all eat up the posts about homophobia when my family is discriminated against. But BLM seems to be lower on your totem pole.

I had to title this something about kittens to get you to read it. Granted; there will be kittens. But first, to all my white followers, step it up. Just because you have one Black friend does not mean you are not racist and/or benefitting from white supremacy.

Look to your right and your left. Who are your neighbors? Are any of them Black? Look at your text message list. Who in your last ten text conversations is Black?

Back in April I asked a therapist I know professionally how their Black clients were fairing during the heart of the riots because I had seen several of mine just by chance that week and it was heart-wrenching. They responded that they didn’t have any Black clients. I remember being taken aback. Like oh. Okay. Weird. And now awkward. And why don’t you have any Black clients?

I still don’t get it. I can make conjectures but they aren’t pretty.

We adopted two kittens. I submitted applications to four shelters. The websites said it could take weeks to hear back. I heard back in 48 hours. I got a call Saturday morning and was told there are two kittens available. We arrived as our messy family of two lesbian mom’s and twin four year old boys, and walked out an hour later with two kittens.

No one questioned our income. No one asked to do a home visit, though all the applications said that was likely. They saw our zip code, our whiteness, and boom. Two kittens. I received calls back from the other three shelters Monday morning. I am not naive enough to believe the same would happen for a Black family. That is me benefitting from a society based in white supremacy. LEARN. Stop looking away. And if you read my posts about kittens. You should freaking read the ones about racism.

We are many many weeks into COVID. I don’t want to count because it’s depressing. I am dreading Winter with kids as the isolation of COVID mixed with long Winter months of being stuck inside. I dread the inevitable resurgence and the loss of childcare again when our preschool closes. Too many of my clients have lost commercial insurance and are now on Medicaid or are uninsured. We are only five months into this. And we have an administration who doesn’t believe in the USPS or in healthcare for all. So this will be a fun Winter.

But the stock market is good. So we are all fine right?

I needed to do something normal. Something fun. I needed my sons to stop feeling sad after losing Rajha in June. Because it’s a regular discussion about Rajha being up in the sky with Poppy (my dad) and “Banana” (My Nana). The boys are only four and they have known so much loss and witnessed me experiencing significant loss.

They now have Scooby and Ginsburg. Scooby Doo and Ruth Bader Ginsburg. I had to explain to two clients who RBG is. Because Ginsburg likes to sit on my shoulder during sessions…leading to the inevitable introduction.

They were young straight adults. I smiled and said, you’ve never had a Supreme court case impact your life have you? Then I described the day they ruled on gay marriage and how that impacted my life. I told them the Supreme Court rules on LGBTQ rights and how important that Court is to my right to existence.

The least we could do is name a kitten after our favorite judge. I forget sometimes how differently the hetero’s live. Without fear. Without knowledge or awareness of the rights of minorities or the lack thereof. COVID hasn’t changed anything while at the same time has changed everything.

But now we have kittens. Which makes life just a little better.

Do I love Biden and Kamala? No. Do I think they will be better than the current ass sitting in our white house? Yes. Vote like your life depends on it. Because so many do.

I’ve touched on a lot of topics here but the take home message for white people is to do some anti-racist work. Because you need it. Your avoidance of my BLM posts is evidence that you think you know it all or don’t care to know more. Either of which is bad. I don’t know it all. I still do the work. And to any 20 something straight people….google “Supreme Court Justices” and learn something.