There's a buttload of noise in the 'sphere about chickenhawks (and others) whinging about the stress of the grind of blogging to Keep America Free (of brown people and liberals). Some are mocking them, and they should be mocked--who the fuck are they to whine about their fucking blogging problems, given the problems of the troops fighting a war that the same wingers so fervidly support? Not to mention the poor, the tired, the hungry, the disenfranchised, and the families of those same troops.
On the other hand, some of it's overboard. They're not packing it in and going away. They're just whinging children. Ignore them, they'll feel better tomorrow.
I am put in mind of a cat that once owned me, the greatest cat in the history of the entire fucking universe, actually, and I'll still throw it down and kick your ass into the next millennium if you want to make something of that. I hope Kitty Heaven is all it's cracked up to be, Callie.
Hmm. Sorry, brief humanizing distraction there. My bad. I am put in mind of this cat, Callie, because she was just flat vicious, when it occurred to her that viciousness might be entertaining. She would pretend to mope, then start purring at your very presence, then--wait for it--gaze at you adoringly with her big beautiful greenish-yellow eyes, luring you in, luring you in, pet me, pet me, I'm just a little kitty, a little 14-pound, 22-year-old kitten, really, aren't I totally fucking adorable?, comfort me, I'm depressed and you are my human, just a little closer, oh yes, look, my underbelly, hear my purring when you rub my tummy? WHAM!!!
Matching scratch lines, perfectly parallel down your forearm. Or your face, if you were really imprudent. The kicker was the way she'd lick her lips and purr louder after drawing your blood.
Damn, I loved--still love, in fact--that cat.
I do not, however, love stressed-out wingnut bloggers, and this blogging PTSD horseshit? It's just another version of Callie--a far less socially useful or redeeming version--laying there, waiting for the opportunity to draw your blood. Don't fucking pet them.
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I love cats like Callie. They have a consistent POV, a workable plan, and they stick to it.
Wingnut bloggers? Not so much. Actually, they make me wish I was a man so that I would have greater accuracy while pissing at them.
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