Author: docthink

no one of consequence

You Can Live Through Anything if Magic Made It

A stylized corner-scape of the construction entrance for the new DC Trump Hotel at 12th and Penn NW with a riff on a no-parking sign that reads "No Trump Anytime."

Enough with the outrage. This is not a scandal. In the big picture, it’s a minor error.

Let me start by saying that while I’m not indifferent to the pickle that Ms. Trump has gotten herself into, I don’t actually feel sorry for her. She’s doing okay for herself.

I mean, first, she can walk in those shoes. I would totally misstep and feel the heel slip out from underneath me to find my ankle bent at the wrong spot, immediately followed by bouncing my own not-so-tight buttocks to the ground.

Second, her dress was quite nice, with those frilly poofs at the end of her 3/4 length sleeves. It was an angelic white. I could imagine myself in the green room and either spilling a coffee, or, very likely, depositing a ring of makeup around the neckline. She looked pretty flawless.

She’s along for a crazy ride as a politician’s wife. Not just any politician, but a major-party presidential candidate. There’s a ton of spotlight trained on her, but she spent the early part of her career under lights, strutting along the catwalk. I think she’s got this. She might not like it, but she’s got it.

Okay, back to the outrage. The outrage about Melania Trump’s speech at the Republican National Convention. The outrage over the speech she delivered to “humanize” her brash spouse. The speech that was cribbed liberally from the speech Michelle Obama gave eight years ago to humanize her own presidential candidate husband.

Michelle Obama’s was a good speech to copy. It probably marked the beginning of America’s love affair with the future first lady. It made people see the Obamas as another couple with struggles “just like us.” It was designed, in part, to de-other them.

Ms. Trump delivered her version professionally, if a bit stiffly. I mean it was originally written to introduce a “South Side [of Chicago] Girl.” That doesn’t fit Trump so much.

But this is not a scandal. It is a staffer using cut and paste and then attempting to make the words Melania’s own by whitewashing the personal out. Yes, the two speeches eight years apart had almost 50% in common. But the concepts of hard work and loyalty and hope for children is pretty universal–whether you grew up in eastern Europe or south Chicago.

More importantly, this is the candidate’s wife we are talking about, not a future Attorney General (although it would be a little funny if Gov. Christie got passed over, again. But I’m not laughing since schadenfreude may be bad karma).

From an artistic point of view, it could be that Melania Trump is just digging deep into her OG self. Like Weezy says after incorporating Kanye’s lyrics in his song:

And that was called recycling
Or re-reciting
Something ’cause you just like it
So you say it just like it.
Some say its biting
But I say its enlightening
Besides Dr. Kanye West is one of the brightest.

So maybe she was paying homage to a great first lady. Maybe she was modeling herself after another supportive wife. Maybe she was feeling the same feels and didn’t have a more clever way to express them.

Maybe she was just sampling a familiar hit. So sue her.

Anyway, her nonpartisan words about what it’s like to be an American were not the scandalous words that I heard last night. No, they were not. Let’s not waste any more time on the frivolous speech of the wife. There’s bigger fish to fry.

Posted on by docthink 0

Post #198

A break in the trees at the National Arboretum. Stylized.

Oh, jeez. I suffered by writing most of today. And I am going to take a pause as well as some credit for a post today.

I wrote today using incomplete sentences. I wrote using stupidly long words. I wrote in a stiff and stifled fashion. I wrote because I had to, but not like it was me writing. Like some person who seemed like me was writing. So. I am writing a few words so late today, just a few words, that are authentically my own.

I am including a nice picture in lieu of a decent post. This picture was snapped on a day we took a walk in the National Arboretum. If you haven’t been there, I recommend it. On another day, I will write about an occurrence there with the Big Guy.

So this might not be an interesting post, but I bet I got you interested in a future post.

Posted on by docthink 0

Just Rewards

A box of ice cream with a spoon in it sitting on top of a computer.

I am eating ice cream for lunch. Out of the carton. There wasn’t a full pint left, and I’m going to eat it all.

It’s cardamom-vanilla. It’s super creamy and mostly vanilla-y, except for a small warm sharpness from the spice. It’s from the pop-up ice cream store. The pop-up is run by pirates. I call them pirates because they hang black tarps over the dairy coolers in the back and sell their own brand of ice cream on Sundays when the dairy that owns that space are at church. I guess it’s okay to take rent on the Lord’s Day.

I am pre-rewarding myself for completing a task that I have been putting off completing for the past two weeks. This makes my pre-reward a bit more than brazen. It’s alot of work to do and has a hard deadline which is fast approaching, so fast that it will (too?) soon be in my rearview mirror.

Actually, while I said that I have put off the completion, I really haven’t started it yet.

This is sadly what I do. I have been counseling Baby Bear on his application of these patterns. We know we cause ourselves stress, and yet we watch ourselves perform the same choreography ad nauseam. I’m old. I don’t know that I can do it another way.

So, I am eating ice cream and writing a blog post. Now I’m thinking that I could take a walk and clear my head. I pick up my charged phone in case there’s Pokémon on my route.

Might just be another long night.

Posted on by docthink 0

No Honor In Killing

an egg with a bunch of cracks and an ineffective bandaid across a few of them.

This is going to be a short, hot post. Because I am boiling.

Stupid headline in Rolling Stone reads:

Pakistan’s “Kim Kardashian” Murdered by Brother in “Honor Killing”

WTF is an honor killing? Why the hell even use that term? Is it to make it foreign and exotic? Like this is something that people do in other countries, in the calling of other religions?

STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT.

Yes, this murder is heinous. Yes, it is totally out of line. No, he has no right to control her. And there is no right he has to kill her.

BUT THIS SHIT HAPPENS EVERY DAY IN THE U.S., TOO.

  • One in four women, yeah one of the four women at that brunch table next to you, will be a victim of domestic violence in her lifetime.
  • Young women are most likely to be beat up or killed at the hands of a partner or former partner. Ages 20-24 are the worst. Hide your daughters.
  • One-third, yup, one in three, women murdered are murdered by a partner or ex-partner.
  • From 2003-2012, 65% of female victims were targeted by someone they knew; only 34% of male violent crime victims knew their attackers.
  • More than 320,000–yes three hundred and twenty THOUSAND–women each year are abused by a partner.
  • Men use rape to control women. 45% of women in physically abusive relationships are raped during the relationship.
  • Do you know that men who kill women they know are treated more leniently than stranger murder, like facing fewer charges of first-degree murder? It’s called the intimacy discount in Canada.

Before you go #NotAllMen on me, I know that. So what.

This is about control. It’s not about honor. We need to fix our language at home and abroad. It’s not a quaint custom of a foreign land. It’s what happens every day.

Yes, every day there are three (3!!!!) women killed by a current or former male partner in the U.S.

So stop acting like it’s the other. It’s fcuking us. And what the hell are we doing about it?

PSA: If you or someone you know is in danger call 911, a local hotline, or the U.S. National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-7233 and TTY 1-800-787-3224.

Posted on by docthink 0

Framing or Taming Fears

A frightening site. A post coitus demon sitting in a blown out building overlooking the East Side. For those of you who don't know, this is from Ghostbusters.

Why did she do it? Why did she step outside her frilly cravat and black robes for poli-talk. Inappropriate for a sitting Supreme Court Justice. Inappropriate.

First, I know that plenty disagree with me on that last word. But for those of you of the leftward lean, imagine if Justice Scalia had said the same about candidate Obama. There were calls for Justice Alito’s head when he publicly reacted to the President’s State of the Union by reflexively shaking his head no and mouthing, “Not true.” That’s nothing like calling a major party candidate a faker and saying he’ll bring America to ruin. Let’s be intellectually honest here and call the game fairly.

Back to the why. Why did she step so far out? She hasn’t crossed the line this directly into politics before.

Some say it’s because in her eighth decade, she will just say whatever she likes. Others wonder if she is feeling her moniker as The Notorious R.G.B. and was lost in her own importance. Was she careless? It’s hard to think that her remarks were casual, especially because she repeated them before she walked them back and apologized.

I think she was deliberate in her statements. She was in a sit down with the New York Times. It’s as if she sought an opportunity to be on the record. I think it’s because she is afraid. She as much as said so.

I imagine a scenario where she’s feeling that this cycle is very different. That established rules of behavior and decorum of the presidential election process are being flaunted. That even as personal and ugly as elections have become, that there is a new level of debasement. And it is frightening.

I have a hunch that she thinks this is the worst, and most dangerous, election in modern American history. That our democracy, that America, is seriously at risk. I imagine that she felt compelled to do something. She felt remaining silent was an abdication of her oath “to support and defend the Constitution of the United States.” That, if she could, she must use her influence.

I bet she didn’t map out about the true political ramifications of her comments. She played directly into the narrative that scares her. She immediately became the lighting rod for judicial overreach, for confusing the roles in our Constitution, for the out of touch establishment and as the worst of liberals trying to protect their liberalness. By taking the unprecedented steps of directly commenting on an active election, she likely expected to have an impact. But she wasn’t going to have much impact on her own choir, and she riled up the other team.

Justice Ginsburg is a brave person both on the bench and personally. But she blew this because she played outside of her strength. It’s recklessness borne of a growing alarm.

Writing a note to self: Do not act out of fear. Act from the strength of convictions. Yours, not someone else’s.

Posted on by docthink 0

You Don’t Really Care For Music

I like music. Sometimes I sing along. Sometimes I listen. Sometimes I think. Sometimes I escape. Frequently it’s a combo box.

I like pop music. I like hip hop. I like many jazz styles. I like rock, gospel and classical (including opera). There’s even metal I like. I like zydeco, Irish, polka and other traditional music. I like Bollywood tracks and Broadway musicals. I like rhyme and rhythm and stories.

I don’t like all of it. But I like a lot of it.

I like it because it has a crazy hook that I am programmed to sing along. I like it because it tells me about someone’s life. I like it because I can relate to that life, or because I can’t. I like it because it makes me dance. I like it because it makes me feel something–joy, loss, sadness, hope. And, like I said, not all of these likes at the same time.

I know that there is an industry built around music. That folks make money off my likes. This doesn’t mean that it’s not art. It also doesn’t mean that it is. This doesn’t mean it is worthy. Or unworthy. You decide.

There are pieces that make up music. There are the lyrics, the melody, the instruments, the beat, the vocal, the backup vocal, and effects. Effects that make echos, that cut the music to drive it, that make some instruments louder and others recede.

Leonard Cohen wrote a beautiful song, Hallelujah. It is such a beautiful song that even when I sing it it sounds alright. From the lips of Jeff Buckley, though, especially as accompanied by his weeping electric guitar, it is the human experience. It is full of spirituality, of sadness and despair and, somehow, of hope. From the first intake and exhale of breath to the final sweet ooooh and guitar chord, it is art. It is Buckley adding his art to the art of the composer. It is good.

There are 240 words in the song. I didn’t count every hallelujah for this exercise, although each one is important and right for the piece. But for the purpose today, it wouldn’t be fair.

“What purpose is that?” you ask.

There is another song, one that is not as moving but is a better than decent club song. This Is What You Came For is a producer’s song. It’s the beat, the tempo the mix. The vocals are used as an instrument, so the lyrics are a tool for the singer to perform. There are sixty words to this song, not including all the You, oh, oh, you, oh, oh‘s of which there may be dozens.

The lyrics aren’t awful, just not interesting. I mean, if you want awful, try and make it through Juicy J— but I gotta give it to that rapper, he spits over some great beats.

My point? In some tunes, the vocals recede like a rhythm guitar or the sound of a beeper in Where It’s At. The words are not what makes the music. They are a part of the whole that the producer weaves into a mix designed, in this case, to get you to the dance floor for some writhing. This Is What You Came For does that, propelled by the vocals of Rihanna looping again and again over the electronic house beat. It’s made for dancing. Any singing along is more akin to dancing with your mouth. It’s dance music.

My real point? Shut up Taylor Swift. You’re 60 word contribution was noted. You are no Leonard Cohen in this instance. So just shut up. And cash your check.

Posted on by docthink 0

Air Valve

A pile of sugar in a spoon. It might be a teaspoon, but it's hard to be exact.

Dear lord. It started with a misplaced sip of water. The bubble started from my throat, or maybe it’s my gut. Either way it builds to a very tight wad of air until it bursts a few inches below my chin.

Damn. Did I just get the hiccups? I wait to see.

You don’t really know if it’s the hiccups until the second one. I mean, you can feel that it might be, but, until you get the rhythmic spasms, you hold hope that it isn’t going to stick.

My chest almost tightens and the air explodes. Some of the air shoots out of my nose in a very uncomfortable fashion. It’s almost effervescent, but not nicely so. Effervescent in that citric acidy way that burns your nostrils. A subset of the air from my tight chest, almost concurrently with the nose release, reverses back down and erupts in my esophagus just above my stomach. This is also not pleasant.

There’s a burst of belchy air that escapes from my mouth. This is the part I really hate. The air doesn’t as much escape as expel through my lips at a disturbingly high speed. This happens via some unknown muscle in the back of my throat. This muscle curls onto itself. It creates a very tight spring, and when it lets go it shakes the top half of my body. I am not exaggerating. I visibly convulse a bit.

The air rushes through my voicebox on the way to my mouth to create a squeaky “hic” sound. A sound that seems so silly and gentle. But that sound belies the violence of the air jetting out.

It doesn’t hurt. Not at first.

Even though I am alone, my hand rushes to my mouth to excuse myself. It’s just polite to avoid spreading air spewing from your gut across the room.

I wait.

Yes, there. Damn. Although the hiccups are rhythmic, it’s a syncopated beat. A beat without rhyme or reason. Hiccups are erratic and random–except that they will repeat. For too long. Sometimes they’re fast and furious, but more often they tease you into thinking that they are over. Until they are not over but instead causing pain in your chest and your throat.

Mind races to the list of cures. A teaspoon of sugar. Or of vinegar. Or hot sauce or honey. Covering your mouth with a paper bag and slowly inhaling and exhaling into that bag. Drinking a glass of water through a paper towel or with a spoon hanging underneath your tongue. Then there’s fright–but you know it’s coming so it rarely works.

Or writing a post about it. Seriously. They are gone. I love this blog!

Posted on by docthink 0

Kittehzzelz and The Beast

Evidence!

It was a stunning morning. Cool without chill. Sunny without blaze. Perfect for a stroll, not just for business but for pleasure, too.

We walked past the Bobcat front loader at the end of the street. The Beast examined it with his snout and sprayed towards it with his leg lifted. We turned the corner.

The windows on the first floor apartment were open, letting in the day. They let out a tinny sound from a radio. I think it was smooth jazz.

We approached the end of the block, then what to our wondering eyes did appear? A Pokémon. In the wild.

Fortunately The Beast was nonplussed, even when it jumped up and down. Even when it was beating its wings. It was as if he didn’t see it. I held his lead tight as I captured the flapping bird. We were safe.

I don’t know much about our current infestation of these pocket monsters, except we’re supposed to catch them all. It didn’t appear, however, that The Beast would be of much use. I wondered whose side he was on. Still, I was grateful that he didn’t lunge at it as I really prefer my arms snug in my shoulder sockets.

We turned the corner heading toward the tracks. I did a mini face-palm when I realized I did not have any bribes–I mean treats–in my pocket. I usually put one in my hand as we approach where the train might appear. The damn dog can get downright ornery, barking and pulling and stepping on my feet and forcing me to step out of my shoes. The idea is to offer a treat as a distraction. Not that they do any good. It’s more so I feel like I can do something. It’s all an illusion.

We turned the next corner, heading closer to home. The walk had become blissfully uneventful. We walked past the treehouse where The Beast’s buddies lived. There was a panoply of water hazards in the yard: a small blow-up baby pool, a large blow-up big kids pool and a water table with little buckets, cups and spoons.There was a huge old tree that provided shade for the hazard takers. There were no hazard takers or dogs in sight, though.

We crossed the street to the house that has the huge side lot. The grass was freshly cut. It was cropped like Howie Long’s flattop, where it looks thick and lush for its exacting trim. I saw them first. The wild kittehzzelz.*

It was weird that my phone didn’t vibrate as we approached these mini-monsters. There were two kittehzzelz. One was gray and white and the other was orange. They were stretched out on the lawn enjoying the cool shade as it’d be a few hours before the sun made it over the house. As we approached, they flipped onto their bellies in unison. Their heads swiveled as one toward us. The Beast noticed these Pokémon in the wild. I knew because he was pulling me in their direction.

I planted my left leg as far away as I could and lunged or maybe lurched, literally dragging the dog. I gave a quick check to his collar. He took a step toward me. I decided to maintain speed and direction away from these creatures of interest. I didn’t have a tool to capture and dispose of them.

The Beast disagreed with me. He was trying to head to the kittehzzelz nest. I put my head down and squared my shoulder as I attempted a long stride away. He usually falls in line, but not this morning. Not only was he being civilly disobedient, but he was turned in the direction of opposition.

I yanked and dragged. He wasn’t budging. This was becoming very annoying. I tugged harder. So did he. He was intent on staying put. I turned around. I was shocked to see a crazy orange kittehzzelz almost nose to nose with the dog. The Beast was more curious than anything. Usually smaller creatures run away from his dangerous heft. Not this kittehzzelz. I’m like, is this thing rabid? Where’s its sense of danger? Then it happened.

The kittehzzelz was evolving from a medium sized ball of fluff to a more ferocious self. A kittehbobcat, maybe. It made itself much bigger. It changed its shape to increase it’s  girth by arching its  back. Its eyes were about twice the size of a minute ago. It spit, too.

I was all like, why the hell are you compelled to come up to my dog and get aggressive? I didn’t have a pokeball or anything–not even a treat–to throw at it. So I yelled at it. I was getting worried. I needed to get to work and I didn’t feel like pulling a vicious, rabid kittehbobcat off of my dog. And this vicious kittehbobcat sure seemed like it was ready to attack. Really. I am not making this up.

I threw my entire weight into pulling The Beast away from the mesmerizing monster. I dug my feet into the sidewalk to gain traction. I inched The Beast away, and the vicious kittehbobcat took two steps closer. Using my outside voice, I called it a mean cat. It spit again. The Beast let go of his protest and moved with me. He was still facing the vicious kittehbobcat, but at least he was now backing away. The kittehbobcat stood it’s ground and hissed and sprayed.

The Beast begrudgingly moved with me, but still had two eyes trained on the orange monster. I followed his gaze to see the vicious kittehbobcat turn, mockingly lift its tail and trot back to its companion. That one got away.

_____________________________

* Loyal Reader, do NOT, tear apart your pokedeck trying to find this mythical creature. I think The Beast found the only one. Also, I made up this name.

Posted on by docthink 2

Big Juicy

Tomatoes on the vine. Damn, they look good.

I had my eye on that tomato. I wanted it, but I wanted both of us to be ready.

I don’t know that I saw its flower. There were a bunch of flowers that late spring. They were little yellow stars against the deep green of the vines. I didn’t hone in on one or the other as they twinkled in the morning sun. I was just happy to see them get off to a great start.

The flowers soon disappeared and were replaced by little grape sized globs (or maybe globes?). Tomatoes-in-waiting. Where I am doing the waiting. Waiting for tomatoes. I’m encouraging them, too.

It’s funny how the flowers all appear at, or at least near, the same time, but the indivitual spheres take off on their own pace. Like a race.

So from the undifferentiated yellow flowers springs a free-for-all of vegetables. Some grow fast, some grow in clumps and some hang out by themselves. Sunning themselves, supping on the morning dew, and growing.

The tomato I am watching is not only the biggest, but it’s the one that starts blushing. As it changes from the waxy green, it first looks like a bruised face. Like it was in a fight and the fleshy part of it’s chin took a punch. The discoloration evens out, and it is orange. There is a ring of yellow at the top, near the vine, but the rest of the tomato is more carrot than zucchini.

This is NOT the time to disturb it. The contrast, especially next to its still-green sibings, makes it look red. But it’s not. It’s orange. A rainstorm moves the progress along. Now, when you cup it in your hand, the tomato starts to feel less hollow and more heavy. It passes from orange-red to red-orange. But it’s not done yet.

I very gently and very slowly wiggle the tomato against the vine. It’s umbilical cord is holding fast. Not yet.

The next day was brilliantly sunny. The tomato is definitely red. Any hint of orange is gone as is the yellow-orange ring at the top. I brush away the nub left from the dried up flower at the bottom of the orb. The green vine looks even darker and lusher next to the deep pomodoro red. I test the vine. The vine releases the fruit into my hand.

I draw the tomato to my face and breathe in the core side. It smells a little pine-y with a hint of what might be a whiff of hops, like cascades hops. The top definitely smells green, grassy green. It’s warm from the sun.

The tomato is much heavier than it looks. As I compress my fingers around it, it gives in. You can feel the moisture just inside its waterballoon self. The red walls, though, breathe back. There are no indentations left from fingers.

I bring it into the house and give it a perfunctory run under the water from the faucet. I put two pieces of bread in the toaster. I take the serrated knife and cut off a thin bottom and then gently saw back and forth to make a bunch of slices that I place on the mayonnaised bread. A twist of the pepper mill, a sprinkle of coarse salt and the frills of the outside green flounce of romaine finish it.

I bite in and the wet of the tomato spills down from the corner of my mouth and soaks my chin and my hand.

Did I tell you it was still warm? From the sun?

Posted on by docthink 0

Gotta Catch ‘Em All?

Seriously. Charmander will hand Squritle's ass to said squirtle.

Confession time. I am afraid of Pokemon.

Let me start by telling you my Pokemon history.

The Gameboy was bestowed on The Big Guy when he was not so big. Like he was seven. I will never ever ever never ever ever forget that day.

The batteries were in the handheld, the cartridge was in the slot, it was powered up. And then–cue the sad trambone–nothing.

Well, not actually nothing. We were introduced to Professor Willow. And we (the playa) was supposed to do something. But I watched and “guided” the Big Guy around the house, along the left-right, up-down grid in the room.

We couldn’t get out of the house. The Big Guy would position himself on the mat, at the doorway out of the room and proceed to walk into the door. To absolutely no effect. Keep pressing that key forward and keep seeing that that poor Ash would never get out of his effing parent’s house.

My response? Looking at the tools available, I said, “Throw a potion at it.”

That was all I had. Throw a potion at the door. Maybe it would open. But it never did. And my seven-year-old learned on that very day that I had no friggin idea. This didn’t have had to be brought to his attention at such a tender age. I’m just saying.

Somehow, he managed to get out of the house, despite my lousy admonitions, and go forth and capture and train many a Pokeman. He might not have caught them all, but between red, blue, yellow, silver and gold, ruby and sapphire, diamond and pearl, many pocket monsters were captured and tamed. There was more than one device employed over the years, too.

There was that day when I was driving the minivan from school to soccer or from soccer to school or maybe from school to soccer to grocery store to home. Where is less important than what. There was a constant, perhaps incessant, chatter from the back seat about Pokeman. Like all about it. I was listening intently, to understand and to respond, but in all honesty it had been going on constantly. For hours. I could do no more.

“Sweetie,” I said with more pleading in my voice than I intended, “Doc can’t listen about Pokemon any more right now. So you can still talk, but I can’t listen.”

He said, “Okay, Doc. Can I talk about it later?” I said yes.

To his great credit, two-hours later he asked, “Hey, Doc, can we talk about Pokemon now?” I once again said “yes,” from my freshened self. And I learned about the different types and the different levels and the evolutions. I asked the Big Guy to build me a matrix of the monsters. He learned what a matrix was and saw how he could display attributes–or data. I liked this. Alot.

Pokemon went to the wayside after the acquisition of the game systems attached to the TV. The crudeness of the gameplay made it much less interesting than Spyro the Dragon, and, eventually, and years later and very interestingly, John Marston.

Fast forward to today.

There is a just-released version of Pokeman for smart phones. It’s called Pokeman Go. It’s brilliant in that it takes the game outside of the console (in this case phone) and incorporates the location knowledge of the phone with the game. The game is the same silly, but it incorporates the silly outside the fourth wall. You can walk through your urban landscape via your phone and “see” wild Pokemon to catch  with Poké Balls tossed with a flick of your finger on your phone.

That’s what scares me.

I am afraid to download the game because I will be one of the freaks “seeing” Pokeman  behind the mailbox, next to street lamp and on the subway platform where I frantically swipe up and right and down to catch the monster as I watch the train pull away. Because I will become totally obsessed with catching them all.

NO! I will not join in. I will not be a cultist member of the game, because if I were to play, I would constantly be pulling my phone from pocket or purse, trying to catch them all. And, to be real, it is the least important thing I can do. There are dishes to wash and dogs to walk. In. Real. Life.

So, my phone becomes the portal between the real and the pretend world? And I can interact with a fantasy word while I am awake and while I am sober? Put the phone down on the table. Walk away. Walk slowly, but away.

Okay. I downloaded it. But I’m not going to play it. Okay. I chose Charmader. I know he’s the hardest to play. Must. Not. Play.

 

Posted on by docthink 3