January 30

God Bless America, We Have Outdone Ourselves

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And so ends a saga in American History. A chapter slowly comes to a close. A new book begins to be written.

As Barack Obama’s presidential term comes to a close, a new door in American Politics opens up. To some, Obama was Black Jesus. Others? A Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Regardless of what you thought of the man, it is safe to say once the incumbent leaves office, looking at current candidates, the great nation known as The United States Of America, is completely fucked.

Seriously, let’s take a look at the four leading candidates looking to fit into some presidential knickerbockers. We have two democrats and two republicans captivating headlines.

There is the politico machine, former first lady, and current heavyweight democratic favorite: Hillaryyyyyyyy DontMentionBenghazi Clintonnnnnnnn!

Up next on the ballot for democrats to choose from is the charismatic yet ancient man. Everyone’s favorite jewish socialist, The Bern man: Bernie MyHealthIsNotAFactor Sanderssssssss!

Then, in the red corner, weighing in with outrageously wild speeches that continue to point to polls, we have the businessman turned politician: Donald MyHairIsReal Trumpppppp! 

And then, quite possibly the least favorite person by the RNC’s standards, a man no one knew about a few months ago: Teddy ImAmericanNotCanadian Cruzzzzzzzzzzzz!

There are other candidates, although I don’t think most could name them.

For the democrats there is… Uhhhh…? Biden? He is running, right?

For the Republicans there is a huge field. Handsome Rubio, Jerry Curl Rand Paul (Jr.), Dr. Dramamine Carson, that one lady who is mean to Donald. Oh, and DJ Christie from the state made popular for blowouts, spray tans and bridge fiascos.

Make no mistake, no one is perfect, but this roster of “all stars” looks like the Bad News Bears before they found a coach. This is The Mighty Ducks, at the beginning of the movie, before Emilio Estevez saved the day and we let him melt into obscurity in favor of his insane brother.

Let’s look a little closer at the playing field. Seeing as how the incumbent is democratic, let’s take a look at who his heir apparent would be from his party.


 

Skeletor Hillary Clinton

Now, it would be a little unfair to only represent Hilary as Bill’s wife. Before and after her husband’s presidential terms, Hilary has continued to be a mainstay at Capitol Hill. Most notably, she was even Secretary of State! Fun fact- this is often considered the position of the heir apparent for the administration. Time and time again, the Secretary of State has gone on to become Commander In Chief. Foreshadowing? Possibly.

Hilary is a heavy favorite from her party. Unfortunately, besides her claim to fame being Bill’s wife and a woman, her political stance can be best seen as switching constantly from orthodox to southpaw with the tide of the public. To be fair, this is something most career politicians do. Feed the public what they want, and wait for the next meal they demand. She is also mired in controversy; from dumping emails to not kicking Monica Lewinsky’s ass on the White House green.

Dr. Emmit Brown Bernie Sanders 

Feel the Bern! Bernie has captivated a new wave of youth voters tired of feeling like they have no say in the world. Which is sort of ironic, considering just how old Sanders would be in office. At 75, he would beat out Republican God Ronald Reagan as oldest to take the office.

Now it should be noted Bernie Sanders is saying all the right things. He speaks of equality as if it is easily attainable. Now, if we could only remember eight years ago, when a bright charismatic leader ran on the platform of CHANGE! That isn’t to say Bernie doesn’t believe he can come into office and make sweeping changes. That is just to say while the youth and many throw their weight behind the surprising dark horse from Vermont, his party seems desperately to be throwing all their weight behind Hilary Clinton. And that age! Most wouldn’t feel comfortable with a 79 (which Bernie would be if you count four years into his possible presidency) year old behind the wheel of a car, let alone a nation.

The democrats have given us Martha Stewart on politics and Father Time. With no other viable candidate even in the running, as Biden sits this one out, it seems the democrats are stuck between a rock and an old socialist. 


 

That brings us to the republican landscape.


 

The Apprentice Donald Trump

As everyone sits with bated breath, waiting to hear the phrase “You’re fired!” come from his mouth, Donald Trump has wowed and kept interest for the other absolutely wild things he says. His speeches leave some going, “What the ever loving fuck” while others shout “Fuck yeah, he is just saying what everyone is thinking!” To be fair, I don’t even think the Donald expected his campaign to be so successful. By aiming and leveling blame at almost every group of minorities, while focusing on the latino and muslim community, he has raised rousing support among white voters.

Donald has little in the form of actual experience. Each of his speeches seems like a reality show and even he doesn’t believe how popular he has gotten. The Trump can be (and has been) the biggest star of debates he isn’t even participating in!

The Candyman Ted Cruz 

Oh, Canada!

Sorry. Where did that come from? Ted Cruz has gained momentum as the republican dark horse by drawing heavily from conservative bases. By making church and state no where near separate, he has called upon God to boost his poll numbers. Boy, has it worked. He is a candidate that actively blasts anyone who makes their way to his cue cards. With trademarked faces, he has gained a scary amount of support. Move over, Drake, this is a real started from the bottom now we here story.

The thing with Ted Cruz that makes him arguably the scarier of the two republican candidates is his political policy savvy. He knows exactly what he wants, has his agenda and has zero fucks given for deviating from ultra conservatism. In an era considered to be super progressive, this Senator Palpatine is hell bent on becoming emperor.

Marco Rubio, you smiling doll faced senate skipping man, you were suppose to do what Paul Ryan couldn’t. Now, the republican party scrambles to back the candidate that hasn’t bashed the party too severely. Honorable mention to Jeb Bush, for being the Bush that was just a little too late to campaign (by twenty years). 


 

This is our political landscape. An ex- first lady who was/is no Eleanor Roosevelt. A socialist from Vermont who looks like he might have come to America on The Mayflower, A business turned celebrity turned politician who spews visceral crazy, and an ultra conservative most would say they thought they recognized from an episode of To Catch A Predator.

God Bless America, we have outdone ourselves.

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January 25

The Playground Isn’t Your Babysitter

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Dear Mom At The Park,

I am writing this in the hopes that you read it. I would tell you this to your face, but your face is buried so deeply into your phone that your phone is no longer making those noises as a ringtone, but climaxing because you hit its cellular g-spot. Your kid pushed my kid, for the thirteenth time. My kid looked at your kid confused. For the thirteenth fucking time. Want to know why he is confused? Because some asshole keeps pushing him. Usually during a confrontation, my kid is used to an adult coming in and intervening. Where is the adult my kid wonders.

Oh that’s right, the adult is finger fucking their phone like it’s prom night. The slide isn’t a babysitter, ma’am. I am sure, after a tough day of doing whatever the fuck you do in your life, coming to the park was a great cool down. But, you forgot one thing when you got here and quickly went about copulating with your phone. You forgot to teach your kid not to be an asshole.

Yeah, your kid is a dick. Head honcho of the asshole brigade. And why do you keep randomly saying, “play nice, sweetie!”? We both know your kid could be being a perfect angel and you would be none the wiser while you hit all the right spots for your phone to  reach its data limit. No, you know your kid has a hard time playing nice and didn’t care when you pulled up to this venue. All you cared about was letting the playground watch your kid.

No, the playground wasn’t built so you could go off and canoodle your phone. If you pulled your phone six inches away from your face you might notice I have brought my kid over to a corner of the park. What are we doing? Oh, nothing, just teaching him how to throat punch your child. I will videotape it so it pops up on your phone and you can tag yourself in it.

I am sorry if I might sound a little irritated. It’s because I am. Currently I am foraging ’round the park trees for a nice stick that I can toss to my son to even the odds against your child.  Stop the cellphone coitus and watch your fucking kid. The playground isn’t your babysitter.

Sincerely,

Briton Underwood

P.S. – Fuck you and your kid.

Originally ran July, 8th, 2015 on The Soap Box

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January 21

Venting Into My Venti

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Anyone else tired of parents always posting about how much they need coffee?

Okay, it took me two cups of coffee just to write that down, but, seriously, we get it stupid moms and dads, you need your fix, uppers and downers are things of yesteryear.

Seven years ago, if I was up at four in the morning, it had to do with a pile of empty beers, some recreational drugs, and the comforts of a girl I hoped wouldn’t be there come sunrise. Now, I sit there at four in the morning with a baby whose spirit animal must be the rooster.

He is struttin’ and hollerin’, folks.

Life changes. So. Freakin’. Drastically after children. If you are one of the parents blessed with a support system, I cheer for you. You enjoy those nights you still get out. A lot of us don’t have that though. Last night I got out, away from my children for the night, was because we LIED.

Oh man, good thing Mama Rosie doesn’t read my blog, because she would be pissed to find out that instead of working on Friday night, we had steak, a hotel room and BOOZE! It had been awhile since I pushed the button on the ice machine and filled the trash can with ice to keep my beers cold.

Before my kids could walk, talk back, and refuse to eat dinner because it wasn’t Mac and Cheese, parenting was a lot easier. Hell, before baby number three I found parenting to be easier. Now, I have three kids that run in opposite directions and I lack the limberness of my youth when I could swing kids around all day.

“Not today kids, you threw my back out yesterday and I think if we wrestle today I will need to ask for a new hip with my tax returns. Now, leave me alone so I can post coffee memes.”

Two Threenagers and a teething toddler who refuses to walk. Oh, and acid reflux. I am one receding hairline from a midlife crisis. Excuse me as I run to the mirror and ask myself if my forehead has always been this long.

“Ground Control to Major Tom, these kids are breaking me down.”

I miss the days when we could watch South Park and they didn’t begin to quote the characters.

It isn’t funny when your kid tells someone to “Suck my balls!”

(Note: It hasn’t happened, thank god, but I imagine that is where we were headed.)

Mama Rosie swears by her Rosary that they say “Fuck”. Either my ears deceive me or I am living in comfortable ignorance that my little angels are actually just saying “Truck” with a cute toddler flair to it.

I used to be able to sneak naps in here and there. Just close my eyes for a few minutes. Well, my kids ended that when they decided to go on a field trip to the neighbor’s as I just rested my eyes for a moment. How I didn’t hear the door is still a mystery to this day. Now, everything is child locked to the point I don’t leave the house because I can’t get out. Oh, and I owe my neighbor a gift card to Dunkin Donuts for escorting my adventurous tykes home.

Also, one of the most traumatizing things. Ever.

Want to feel like a shitty parent? Lose you kid in your own home. We have amped up security here though and I am proud to say no escapes have happened since.

There are days my kids break out of the house and I think, “These boys are geniuses. No other three year old could engineer the great escape with such prowess.”.

Then there are days I find them sticking crayons in their ears, trying to color their brains.

I didn’t realize the words “I am pregnant” signed me up for indentured servitude. I am holding it together though. I did a Pinterest project the other day. It was titled, “A great learning activity for toddlers.”.

It kept me busy for a good hour while my kids decided to do everything but the craft project. I am pretty proud of my Pinterest project and hung it on the fridge anyways. Even put my name on it.

In Greek Mythology, Toddler roughly translates to, “little spawn of Satan that looks eerily similar to you and also has a way of lulling you into a false sense of security that they will use to drop your cell phone into the toilet.”

Or at least it should, because that is the most accurate description of toddler in the history of definitions. These are not adorable children. We went to the grocery store, my kids ran wild and free amongst the aisles. A lady looked at me, wrinkled her nose and asked, “Are those YOUR children?”

Lady, we haven’t had nap time in three fucking weeks. We aren’t even grocery shopping, we just want these little Tasmanian Devils to wear themselves out and sleep past six in the morning. Take your gaudy pearls and shove it to the chip aisle!

Oh, fuck, is that a wrinkle to accompany the eye twitch I got from watching my kid have a meltdown over the fifteen second delay between episodes of Clifford? Netflix, please just stream instantly like you promised.

I am running on caffeine and promises of preschool starting in the fall.

I am not even going to begin discussing the fact every wall in my house has been peed upon. Potty training is GREAT.

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January 19

Are You Okay?

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Write to write

Write for yourself

Write something you need to read

A year-long spiral out of control culminated in a burning throat as my body violently rejected the bourbon I had forced into it. A part of me sat there, knowing I was a fucking mess. Another part, looked into the swirl of half digested dinner and thought, “What a waste of good Bourbon” 

As I staggered naked to my bed, a voice cut through the darkness. 

“Are you okay?” 

I am not sure of when I stopped being okay. 

Shortly before my mother passed, plans were being made. She wanted to see her grandsons. I wanted my children to have someone on my side of the family. I had grown tired of introducing them to “aunts” and “uncles” who were just the friends who stuck around after I became a parent. I wanted them to have real family, from my bloodline. A big part of being a parent is giving your children things you felt you missed growing up. I felt I missed out on having a family. They deserved to at least have relationships I hadn’t been afforded growing up.

I also hoped kids were the medicine my life needed. And mostly, they were. In becoming a father I moved past parties and recreational drugs, settling into a comfy pair of sweatpants and watching my waistline expand. I was hoping the same injection of purpose given to me would spread through members of my family. In an, I will admit, odd line of thinking, I hoped my kids would give my mother and various other family members a reason to be in my life. That they would be brought together by my sons and we might just yet have a large, smiling, family photo next to the christmas tree. For my kids to have “Grandma Chris” was a big deal to me.

On January 28th, after hearing the news that a heart attack took Grandma Chris before she got to hold her grandchildren, a piece of me died. I had tethered myself so tightly to the dream of my kids sitting happily in my mother’s lap as I looked on smiling that there wasn’t any way it not happening wouldn’t completely destroy me.

Have you ever watched as the ice splinters and fractures? Ice cold water pours through cuts to the surface, as the ice that held together so valiantly just continues to fracture into pieces. 

On the surface, it became easy to smile. How do you not? We live in a society where grieving periods last about as long as a trending subject on social media. Below the surface, demons awoke. For all the fights we had, they knew with the passing of my mother that I was weakened. Like ice, I fractured and the demons poured through the cracks. As I grew accustomed to doing over the years, I bit my lip and refused to acknowledge the problems. In ignoring my needs, I hoped they would just go away.

If I don’t feed you, you will die.

But, I was feeding my demons. I might not have been very public about the late nights sitting there nourishing them, but I fed them.

Beer. Cigarettes. Whiskey. Vodka.

I gorged them on love and lust, feeding them desire after desire. Infidelity and everything in between.

I sat there holding a match to my life, waiting for it to be caught in flames.

The family I felt I never deserved now watched me spiral deeper into my own madness. Random acts of assholery and rage.

If you don’t acknowledge the grief it turns into an anger that can completely engulf you.

A year of feeding your demons in the dark will leave you filled with all the wrong emotions. Not releasing those emotions doesn’t make you a harder person. It eats you alive.

In nine days it will be a year since I sunk into the darkness.

A year of trying to destroy everything.

A year of self sabotage.

A year of silent suffering.

“Are you okay?”

“We both know I haven’t been for a long time” 

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January 16

Kerouac Dreams

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As soon as I finish jerking off to my Jack Kerouac style fantasies, I am suddenly aware that for every good Samaritan I may meet on the road, there is equal if not greater chance I will meet a seedy truck driver hellbent on sodomizing me in the bathroom of a shady rest stop.

Oh, to be an American Gypsy. To forge my own destiny, down the beaten path. 

Sighing, I return to the present, where as much as I romanticized the weary traveler’s journey, it remains a folk dream.

My favorite story wasn’t one of rags to riches but rather the riches to rags story of Chris McCandless. Maybe when my literary teacher handed me Jon Krakauer’s book, Into The Wild, only a day after I had called her a bitch, she hoped it would spark my interest and bring me to die in the middle of fucking nowhere. It certainly brought me to dream of the wild expanse and freedom it may hold.

And so, as I hear for what must be the millionth time, “If you don’t like it here you can leave!”, a piece of me walks out that door and down the road, towards the wild unknown. As I post things on The Facebook such as, “When you’ve got nothing, you’ve got nothing to lose,” I lose sight of the fact that maybe my fellow vagabonds might not enjoy the company of my macbook pro and I, just on the journey for the story. In fact, I think the presence of my Macbook would heavily increase my chances at being robbed and left for dead in a shallow grave.

Beat Blogger stabbed following his dream to find something.

Popular Vaguebooker found beaten and broken near truck stop.  

The notion of running into sodomizing truck drivers or envious fellow travelers always settles me back into reality. From there, the list only grows of reasons a vision quest might just, for lack of a better word, suck. It has been ages since I last got lost for hours in the woods. While they still call for my footprints, I can’t help but not forget that what they offer in solace they don’t make up for in electricity. Unless my plan were to risk the urban jungle, I would not be able to find wi-fi hotspots for much of my journey. How will my trip make it to The Instagram?

There is a desire to catch a train, as it pulls out. I want to be a boxcar kid. Railing my way into the rolling plains. Are they even still there? Before I even commit to my reckless dream, finding out whether there is wilderness left to discover might be on the preparation list.

Yes, I hear your call, Wild, and my feet yearn to shuffle along you, Road, but will it be worth it? Am I assured the enlightenment I have always accused you of holding? Will my privilege be checked? 

I only dare brave the long journey if my worries are assuaged.

Placate me. Tell me I am incandescent and needed. 

So, I sit, thoroughly pleasuring my thoughts of being outside of my comfort zone. Moving past all of THIS property I feel so dearly attached to. And the wind rolls through the street, whispering for me to join it.

The wind rolls through the city, calling to lost souls like mine. Enticing them to join it. On The Road. 

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January 13

Billion Dollar Child Care Package

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I’m gonna trade this life for fortune and fame.

I cracked open my children’s piggy bank. Not literally, as on the bottom is a rubber covering. Okay, I sat there violently shaking my kids’ piggy bank and catching coins as they ricocheted this way and that way. Investing THEIR money in the lottery wasn’t a sign of a growing debilitating gambling addiction, I was ante’ing up on their future. Could I have used my own money? I mean, most the money in the piggy bank was mine at some point. I have yet to see these toddlers work a day in their life. Since becoming an adult, I didn’t ever carry actual tender on my persons. It is always SWIPE, SWIPE, SWIPE of the magic plastic. How much money does this little plastic card hold? No fuckin’ clue, but I swipe it like I am Daddy Warbucks. Unfortunately, I needed cold hard cash for the lottery.

 *Shake*

*Shake*

*Shake*

There I stood, shaking and catching precious pieces of silver from the piggy bank. Thoughtfully helping my kids learn about investments. You got to spend money to make money! Right? RIGHT? I wish I had some sort of Crown Royal bag to carry all the change in. There are two thoughts flying through my head anytime I pay out with change.

I need to learn to be more fiscally responsible so I have more than this handful of change on Thursdays. 

Or

Holy crap, I feel like I am living in the Medieval Times! *Tosses sack of change at cashier* “Here, peasant, it’s all there, no need to count. Okay, I will wait while you count. I am sorry for throwing a sack of change at you. No, I didn’t call you peasant. Okay, I am sorry.”

Now, picking the perfect lottery numbers turned out to be a bit difficult. Of course, this was for the kids, like Wu Tang, so I felt maybe they should have a part in picking their future.

Test your might!

While I momentarily entertained the idea of giving three-year olds’ who were terrible counters (1,2,3,4,5,4,6,9,10 YAY!) the chance to pick their own winning numbers, unless I planned to release them in a ball pit filled with giant lottery balls to pick, it was probably best I pick the numbers. Although, this sounds like one hell of an idea. Saturday, I placed their birthdays as my lucky numbers, knowing for certain that God Almighty graced me with twins and the least he could do was grace me with a couple hundred million dollars to take care of them. We know how this story plays out, as I am now going for the billion dollar child care lottery package.

Are you there God? It’s me, Punk Rock Papa.

I am not going to tell you the billion dollar numbers I picked. Sorry, I have very little intention of sharing my “Get out the ghetto” Powerball digits. Now just know, my intentions with a billion dollars are nothing short of wholesome. My kids have needs. This is their investment which I plan to surprise them with after they realize the piggy bank is lighter. Seriously, I think they weigh the thing before bedtime. Last time I borrowed from it, I was exiting the bathroom and there stood two scowling children, one violently shaking the yellow pig in my face. I had to put a legitimate dollar bill in it to appease them. Sometimes I hear the jingle of that pig in my sleep, with tiny toddler voices saying, “We know. We know!”

Yes, this money is for da kidz! I am sure at the top of their list of wants and needs is a really nice car for daddy to escort them around in. Followed by making sure daddy gets the bar he has wanted since realizing he was going to be a father of twins. Oh, and college funds, of course.

Punk Rock Papa’s Pub GRAND OPENING!!!

As “If I Had A Million Dollars” played in the background, I scoffed at The Barenaked Ladies. I am a few hours away from a billion dollars. I mean, my children are a few hours away from a billion dollars. I haven’t looked in to the odds of winning. I hear they are astronomical. But, it is the 13th and that is my lucky number. All I am saying is the stars have aligned.

Now, excuse me, I have to hit three more gas stations to draw numbers. My kids still have a few investment coins to throw down on a life of luxury.

Thank you, Misfit, for inspiring me to write a lottery post. Happy Bestie Day!!

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January 12

Bloggers Killed The Novel Writers

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You have to make sure your numbers are good! Publishers are now looking at your stats! Numbers, numbers, NUMBERS!

My fellow blogger friend continued to chatter incessantly about social media and Facebook page likes. According to her, publishers wanted you to now build your own audience before they even considered publishing you. It sounded like a tonne of crap, but she wasn’t the first one to spew it. According to popular theory, the only thing that now matters in the quest to make the leap from internet diary to New York Times Bestseller are the number of followers accrued along the journey.

This scares me in an “I am an artist and my feelings are fickle” sort of way. Not that I have a size problem. Ladies, I have a full five thousand PLUS on my Facebook page. I will let you calm your heavy breathing and flustered cheeks. But why do my 358 Instagram followers matter? Surely the 474 twitter fiends don’t matter, right?

Oh My God, Becky, look at his social media. 

Remember the fickle feeling artist? Well, it isn’t because he isn’t well endowed with a strong, erm, following. My problems lie in what this means. If publishers are only interested in my social media following, why do I even have a place like my blog to showcase my writing?

Publishers, I have words too. Stop just eyeing my followers like a piece of meat. 

Does this mean publishers are no longer looking for substance? I mean, if you have a large following, they can string your statuses together in one long run on sentence and print it for the masses. Because, you know, fuck literature.

Excuse me while I sit over here, up on my pedestal, wanting to be acknowledged for my skill and not the size of my social media package.

I thought you fell in love with my personality. 

While I have yet to write a book, I do look forward to sending draft after draft to editor. I excitedly anticipate for it to be soul-crushingly rejected. I want to sit here sobbing late at night about my inadequacy as a writer before a company sees something in my manuscript and gives me a shot. I want to toss back rum and cokes with JK Rowling and laugh about the journey as we polish our literary awards.

I want to stay hungry, forever maintaining the image of starving artist. Call me old-fashioned, sure, but I want my talents to be looked at. I don’t want a publisher after me because I have already built myself enough people to sling my wares at. Isn’t that part of the publishers job?

In fact, I will be bold enough to say that my “analytics” are none of a publishers business.

This is great, Chuck Palahniuk, really great. I love the whole premise of “Who is Tyler Durden”. Unfortunately, you are just not active enough on The Twitter for us to publish your book at this time. 

The great writers, past and present, weren’t published because of how many circles they belonged to in Google+.  While I sit here, making Change.Org petitions to permanently change the term blogger to Instant Gratification Authors (Seriously, give us our legitimacy. We need an author turned blogger. A transblogger if you will, to support our cause and raise awareness.) I want to have a level of legitimacy as a writer.

Legitimacy and affirmation don’t come from being published based on popularity.

I am modest. Look at my skill, not my back-end. 

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January 5

You’re an Asshole, Not an Addict

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Maybe we have forgotten what addiction means. Along with “literally”, addiction seemed to be the most misused word of 2015.

I am addicted to Netflix

I am addicted to this game

I am addicted to social media

Everyone was literally addicted to everything. It is okay, I suppose, to use it in passing. I myself am literally addicted to that band, Catfish and The Bottlemen, having to listen to them, like, totes omg every day. But, when we look at people not using the word addicted so flippantly, we find there are people out there using this word in it’s very literal sense.

I had to pull back from social media, I was addicted. It was affecting my real life. My marriage, my relationships, everything. I was literally losing everything to the dangers of internet addiction. 

Which is one of the most ironic things I have ever seen on Facebook this side of posts by dramatic people bitching about how they hate drama. I am not saying social media can’t be an addiction, I am just saying you can’t proclaim you were addicted to social media and had to leave it but are somehow now cured and back on the update the world on everything me grind.

You don’t get addictions under control with moderate use. I don’t just “use a little bit” of cocaine here and there because I have it “under control” from the days when I used to push Yayo up my nose so much I started talking like Tony Montana.

Don’t get me wrong, I love rooting for an underdog. The story of your triumph over social media, as read via Facebook, is beautiful. I just happen to find it a bit rude to, I don’t know, people who have had their actual addictions ruin their lives. I am still rooting for you to deactivate your Facebook. I hope in the new year not to see you in my newsfeed so I can cheer, to no one in particular, that you beat your addiction!

But, Briton, that is a little harsh of you. 

Is it? If my friend was addicted to meth, I wouldn’t cheer him on for getting it under control by only using “a little bit” of meth. Addicts don’t go through rehab and counseling then come out and say, “Well, my doctor and my psychiatrist both agreed if I only smoke a bowl of meth for twenty minutes a day instead of all day, then I am in a much better place. It was the all the time usage that really fucked me up”

My friend with a gambling addiction didn’t conquer her addictions by just sticking to scratch off tickets. This isn’t how addiction works. Maybe I am a bit glib, but doesn’t this bother anyone? Do we really need to be saying, “Bravo”, and giving pats on the back to someone whose only claim is to be a self absorbed asshole that doesn’t understand there is a difference between a lack of willpower and addiction?

You’re an asshole, not an addict. 

Happy New Year, maybe in 2016 we can learn what the fuck words actually mean.

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