Hit Me and Run

I got into a car accident, yesterday. The guy on the other side of the divider made a left turn against his red light. I was too close to the light to brake fast enough, and he didn’t make it. I hit the back of his car.

Number one lesson to take away from this: DON’T turn left when your light is RED. I don’t care how far you think the other cars are. FOLLOW TRAFFIC LIGHT LAWS!

The EMT who checked me out said if I had been going 5-10 MPH faster, I would have died.

The accident was ruled the other driver’s fault, but he didn’t get hurt. I, however, hit my head on the window hard enough for my world to spin. I couldn’t see straight, and I have no idea how I managed to pull over. I got out of the car, but I was falling all over myself, and my knees were throbbing with pain.

And the prick didn’t even try to see if I was okay, or not.

But I’m alive. It’s okay. That’s all that matters.

Let me proceed to the actual issue, here. Why the hell does health insurance not cover car accidents? I pay you thousands of dollars a month for you to pay when I get my body fucked up, but there’s fine print upon fine print upon fine print. What the hell type of insanity is this?

GEICO calls me and lets me know that I have to pay $2,500 for my hospital stay, and they would cover what’s left.

What.

Not only am I the one whose car and body was trashed beyond her own control, but I also have to pay for someone else’s mistake? I suppose I should have just lay on the grass and let karma keep count, because I can’t afford to be treated. Is there no justice in this here United States of America, of ours?

So far, every pleasantly bitter tasting injury with a groovy scar I’ve been served has been an issue with the insurance company, and I end up paying. We’re being cheated from so many different con artists, and we don’t even know it. It’s not even on our radar.

No. Instead we’re running around crying about a necklace Melania Trump gave Michelle Obama.

Why do you even care?

But that’s a different rant for a different day. I personally could not give less of a damn about anything anyone’s handing over to anyone else.

Unless you’re paying for my insurance, your dastardly underhanded capitalistic exchanges don’t matter, to me.

Red Forman’s right. This country’s in the crapper.

Your Vanity Leads to Vanity, Where Dreams go to Die.

Yesterday, I was contacted by someone who led me to believe that “they” worked for a publishing company. I do not think I have ever been happier than I was at that moment. Finally. Finally, someone liked my work. It happened.

I thought.

In my excited state, sleep evaded me, and I spent a great amount of time researching the company. I am not privy to throwing my hands up in the air for just anyone. If nothing else, I am a skeptic with no intention of being bamboozled.

Yes, bamboozled. I’m bringing that word back.

Anyway, after hours of research, I discovered that this publishing company is really just a scam artist of the loveliest degree. It’s a pay-to-play. Spend $5000 first, and then see what they’ll do for you.

“Don’t worry. Just take our word for it,” they say.

Or some derivative of that, anyway.

So in summation, yesterday I was finally in touch with a publisher. Today, I woke up.

Life is funny in the most unfortunate of ways.

Let this serve as a warning to you. Be CAUTIOUS of vanity publishers. They will confuse you. They will tell you that other publishing houses ask for more money than they do.

THIS IS UNTRUE!

Do your homework. Map this out. Don’t take the easy way out, because it rarely pays off.

As for me, this is just another let down to add to the list, and that’s okay. My skin’s gotten thicker in this regard. There comes a point where “no” is to be expected, and it doesn’t hurt as much, anymore.

May you never reach that point, my dears.

A-men.

Of Sleepless Nights and Anxious Messes

It’s four in the morning. I have been in bed for four hours, now. I can’t sleep. My anxiety is approaching an all-time high, and it feels like there’s a hole inside me that’s sucking up all the air I am trying to breathe before it gets to my lungs.

I’m exhausted, but not sleepy. I want to rest and forget everything, but my brain is buzzing. The only things contaminating my mind are the memories that remind me of all the reasons my life is so hard. And unfair. And just painful.

And I realize how juvenile it sounds. It’s as if I am a fifteen-year-old drama queen. I have so much to be thankful for–I know that. I know that I have so much to be thankful for, but that doesn’t make all the terrible things more bearable, and if you don’t believe me, I will list them for you. I will let you form your own opinion, as you read on.

I have Type 1 diabetes. I am epileptic. I wear flats in the dead winter, because shoes induce seizures. My memory is slowly wasting away because of my medications. I am fat. I am not pretty. I am not particularly smart. I am aromantic and asexual in a world that does not accept asexuality as a reality. I’m being dragged in the direction of marriage, and I am too deep inside the closet to protest it at all. I am alone in this, because not one person in my life has any of these problems. Not one. It’s just me, myself, and anxiety, and I’m struggling more than I can possibly explain.

I can’t breathe. I’m losing my mind. Even the things I’ve been told my entire life that I am good at have just led me to fall flat on my face. I’m a student at NYU. I’ve got that going for me. Hurrah for plan C, since A and B failed so tremendously. I don’t really want to be a therapist. I just failed at being a journalist, tanked my chances at becoming a writer, and needed something to do with my life.

And the worst part of all of this is, I am alone in a way that I can’t possibly explain. I am an anxious, depressed mess who covers it poorly with humor and sarcasm.

And for once, I’m not just being melodramatic. I’m quite literally seizing my days away.

And to fix this, I wrote a book loosely based on these experiences in a fictional story-line. Of course, my self-esteem is far too low for me to try to publish it.

I didn’t want to keep whining on here, but I can’t seem to stop.

Hend Salah–fucking up everything since 1991.

The Chronicles of the Literary World: The Publisher, The Writer, and The Piece of Paper

The Literary World is a complex theoretical universe which is run by many a fiend–or more accurately–three omnipresent controllers:

The Publisher, who rules the literary universe with an iron fist; the King of Crime, Monarch of Mystery, Sultan of Satire, Rajah of Romance, Head Honcho of Horror, Oligarch of Overlooked Genres. In his theoretical, majestic hands lay the key to a world every man with a plan is dying to enter.

The Publisher rules with an iron fist. He decides what is or isn’t good enough. He sets the standards. He says who is too wordy, who flounders around his point, and whoever’s managed to get it just right.

But like every ruler before him, he makes some god awful mistakes–perhaps not to the detriment of something as vast as a country’s economy, but rather, the presentation of drivel that negatively affects an entire population. He is not a god, but he sure makes decisions as though he is one. He also probably wouldn’t sacrifice himself for anyone either, particularly not The Witch Writer.

Or she. But we won’t spend time on gender specifics.

The Writer, who, when published, is given a great amount of power over the minds that choose to lend him their eyes and ears.

He has the eventual control over those who readily enter the often fictional world he has created for them, trapping them with words they struggle to forget. They become his unwitting drones, distracting them from their reality and holding them in his, be it horrible or wonderful. Their minds belong to him, until they find their own way out.

He can be evil or righteous, sometimes neither, and often both.

Or she. But we already decided not to go there.

And finally, The Piece of Paper, a magical thing that has been long romanticized. It is the portal to the world of words, used to both enter it as a Spectator of Sorts and a Mage of Mind Control, if only for a short time. It is a fickle friend, making promises it does not always intend to keep.

No gender-specific pitfall to disclaim, here.

There comes a time when we must choose whether to take the trip into this world as audience or player, or simply ignore it completely and live in our own reality. Choosing the latter is a terrible shame.

I myself have chosen to brave it as a witch.

If the piece of paper will let me through.

And the Publisher doesn’t kick me out.

Huzzah.

A New Democracy: One-Party Two-Party Three-Party Four

How many people are responsible for?
Donald J. Trump.
Because you fucked up, America.

People seem to be confused. DJT was not just voted in by racist ‘Murica-dwellers of the redneck variety. They are not just the Louisiana Purchase States inhabitants. No, he was tossed in by the following people: educated conservatives (yes democrats, they exist), liberals who hate Hillary, liberals who hate the Democratic party and undecided voters who were put down and ostracized by Hillary and her band of followers.

You can blame those of us who chose not to vote at all, but that’s your prerogative.

I am a liberal. I am not part of the Democratic Party, nor do I associate with them, nor do I back them, nor do I pledge allegiance to their flag–because their flag is not the star-spangled banner for My Country ‘Tis of Thee.

Except for Obama, and seriously, fuck me for that shit.

I wanted a black president, because apparently I’m suddenly a racist jerk and see color.

Regardless, the two-party system is what got us here, because our choices were so limited that people chose not to vote rather than to partake in an election that was controlled by powers higher than themselves. The general election may have been a fair fight, but the road to this result was not. It was a classic mandate for the voter to pick his or her own poison, eliminating the true definition of democracy and replacing it with a pseudo-democratic only near-freedom of choice.

Because it’s common belief that third parties don’t stand a chance, leading voters to shy away from even trying and succumbing to a system we fundamentally reject.

We need to stop pointing fingers and calling each other names simply because we think we’re in the right. Being aggressive is what ruins us. Refusing to listen is what creates silent enemies who hide in the voting booth.

And on my original point, I will say this, not being a democrat does not make a person anti-progressive, or anti-liberal or even neoliberal. Democrats have a whole slew of heinous crimes that violate civil rights that they have yet to admit to, and a fun-ton of people are not blind to them.

But that’s another story.

Because you see, being a liberal does not make you a democrat
And being a democrat does not make you a liberal.
In case anyone was confused.

“Democracy! Democracy!” yelled the group of the royal ass.
We instantly believe you.

Barrack Obama’s Farewell Address

My favorite part of tonight’s Farewell Address:

“This is why I reject discrimination against Muslim Americans,” said Barrack Obama as millions of Muslims cheered him on, and then, mumbling quietly to himself, he added, “But will still drop thousands of bombs on their families overseas, because they’re not people.”

Codename: Kids Next Door

Ever think about how hard it must have been to come up with Codename: K.N.D episode titles for six straight seasons? Did the writers not one day just be like, you know what? How about
Operation:
F.rolicking
U.nder
C.edar
K.ings
T.hat
H.inder
I.ndividual
S.creens
S.o
H.e
I.nvents
T.roll dolls

and storm out.
I don’t see how troll dolls would be relevent either.
Sorry. Bad form.