Life is made up of minor things though we mark our calendars by majors. I'm trying to clean my system a bit. It happens. So I've stopped taking anything to help me sleep. I used to take things occasionally, but the practice grew until I was fearful that if I didn't take something for pain, anxiety, or whatever. . . so I stopped cold turkey. Three nights now. I'm fine. I don't sleep so well, but it isn't terrible. And Dry January is coming up. I'm not making any New Year's resolutions, but I'm hoping some changes I am making will become my norm.
The small things are your life. The big ones are for the public.
The small things are often the most difficult. I was giving up the news, right? Now I've subscribed to 3 newspapers and am reading them every morning. Not reading all of them, obviously. . . but "keeping up." I have a million things to do today. . . or at least a couple. . . and so I wanted to get an early start. Sat down with coffee and the laptop, looked up, and an hour and a quarter had passed. Trump, Putin, and Assad, sure. . . but also Taylor Swift's The Eras Tour and The Golden Globes controversies. The best Hokas.
The worst of it all is "The Best _______ of 2024" and "The Year in Review" stuff. It makes me loathe the coming of January.
And then there is P. Diddy. Talk about your prurient interests. It's so horrible, they say. You know--"they." The ones who take the deep dive into it all. I know people with inside info. They've seen things on the dark web. I didn't know there was still a dark web. It must be fairly twilight now. I don't think I'd trust it. But yea, you know. . . Diddy and LeBron James. 'Bron was wearing a little French Maid's outfit and getting the Greek. They say Diddy paid him $500,000.
Don't think I want to see that one, but thanks.
I don't get it, though. It was a party, a rave. People were dying to go, to get on the list, to see Wonderland. There are rules in such places. Everybody knows. Don't drink anything you haven't brought yourself. Don't take other people's drugs. I mean, unless you want to. But you know what is likely to happen. Hell, you can see it all around. Why'd you go to the party? To see what would happen.
I'd go. I'd want to see. Such things, you know, out there in Zone 13. Back "in the day," though, when people weren't all victims, a person might blame themselves.
"I fucked up."
Not any longer. Uh-uh.
A female minor, 15, was dropped off outside some music award thing in NYC. She went back to Diddy's party. She is suing now, says she was drugged and raped. She escaped, she says, and ran to a gas station to call her dad. He was a good dad. He came out, picked her up, and took her home.
Years ago.
It had to be. When was the last time you saw a pay phone at a gas station? Maybe she used their landline. I don't have details. But really, good old dad.
WTF?
And then there are the celebrities. Ellen? For God's sake. The Family Feud guy? He pimped off his daughter to P?
Salacious shit. Pedo stuff. It is terrible. Awful.
"My god. . . I've been watching this horror show for weeks!"
Yup. People just can't get enough. They were left out. Didn't get the invite. They can only live vicariously through the victims.
Or is it through the perpetrators?
I'll tell you one thing. Just my prediction. Sex will be demonized for a long time after this. People will be making babies through a hole cut in a sheet the old Puritan way.
Diddy was depraved. . . and everybody wanted to go to the show.
I could never believe Puff Daddy was a thing let alone a billion dollar thing. But then again, I don't get the whole Swiftie movement.
Taylor Swift, I believe, was never part of the Diddy thing. Maybe that's why Kanye dissed her at the Grammies.
We know we shouldn't eat ice cream. . . but we do. Now we can sue the ice cream company for selling it to us. Surely.
It is Friday the 13th. Missed a Full Moon 13th by two days. It is also my mother's birthday. 93. I will try to make it special, but as I've confessed many times, it is not something I'm good at. I will take her flowers and a card this morning, then take her and her friends to eat at the Olive Garden for lunch. Piss off. That's where old people like to eat, and it is kind of fun. She told me that she wanted perfume. True. So I bought her a bottle of Chanel No. 5. Why? I don't know shit about perfume. I do now. It is $100/ounce. Crazy. Unless I tell my mother that, she will not know.
So, yea. . . a million things to do. Or at least a couple.
Let's clean this sloppy post up with a little not-so-diddy music. I'm not so Diddy.
Oh, shoot--and don't forget that the Geminid Meteor Shower will light up the sky tonight--just for my mom!
No comments:
Post a Comment