Write Club: Power v. Justice (POWER)

963, 1023, or 1096. It’s one of those, I’m pretty sure. Once you near 1000 it starts to get hazy. But yeah, it’s somewhere around there.

In 2016, police killed 963, 1023, or 1096 people, depending on your source. It gets hazy.

You know what’s fun? Aside from Not This Even A Little? When you research this, you can click a refresh button for various sub stats and it’s like a grotesque fireworks show - powerful displays of the very opposite of independence. OOOH a third of the victims were under 30. AAAAH 1 in 20 were unarmed. OOOH mental illness was cited in a quarter of the incidents. Wait wait...finale... just under a third actually fled from the officers. Yay (clap clap clap) (sings) Ameeeeerica ameeeeerica...fuck it.

Now, I could spend all of my seven minutes, Lily’s seven minutes, and seven minutes of each of your days into infinity spouting more stats or names like Terence Crutcher, Alton Sterling, Philando Castile, Keith Lamont Scott...but then I would just end this showing the lack of justice from last year alone and call it a day. But that’s lazy. And I’ve had too much rage coffee - also known as air - to be lazy. SO LET’S DECIMATE JUSTICE since it’s pretty much a smoldering corpse of fiction anyway, yeah? GREAT. Let’s go look for some.

Well, police brutality decreased in 2016, but that’s like saying you have less oozing cancer in your left eye than your right. YOU STILL HAVE OOZING EYE CANCER.

We poisoned the water of our own citizens - well. I mean. If we consider bown people citizens. Flint got the brain damaging shit water and the Dakota Access Pipeline is really just a river of pox blankets for Native Americans who had the unmitigated gall to stand up against being poisoned. Again.

And hey. Then there was the election. I can’t say anyfuckingthing new about that. Fucking christ. Motherfuck. Uptown Fuck, Rogue Fuck. The Fuck Awakens. Stranger Fucks. I cannot.

Prisoners are being forced into slave labor and taken out of mental health treatment if they’re "bad."

Brock Turner got "seven seconds of action" and the victim WROTE A LETTER, but we still heard his fucking swim record.

Idiots took over a bird sanctuary.

We’ve taken to rebranding Nazis so we don’t hurt their feelings.

A foreign power stuck its dick in our assed up elections and didn’t even lube up first, and we’re pretending it didn’t happen. It’s like Cosby’s PR people took over our collective consciousness.

We lost everyone holding the fabric of our universe together. I’m not listing them here because I want to remain standing and not scream crying while vomiting into a bucket of consolation chicken. Again. It’s finger licking sad.

Because these things that I try not to think about and think about all the time simultaneously TAKE THAT 2017 Resolution to Meditate -  all of these things...so far...have no consequences. Police officers aren’t charged with murder, the DAPL will still break ground after this month, the Oregon standoff morons are serving their wee sentences, while Native Americans almost died protecting themselves, and the mayor of Flint is still being allowed to speak and the water he drinks is clear and tasty.

Tell me there is justice in the world. There is not. Not a hall, not a dawn of, not a league of it. No justice, no peace. And I’m pretty sure we’re not peaceful now.

Power, though. Power is alive and well. How do I know? Because in Justice v Power, my white ass was handed the topic of Power, while Lily Be is stuck with Justice. “Here, defend this thing that we no longer have for people like you. Good luck!”

In the absence of Justice, Power is all we fucking have left. It’s how we got here in the first place. The loudest, richest, whitest dude wins, because what he has is that scent of authority. The eau d’ control por homme. The stink of Because I Fucking Said So.

And let’s revisit one of those previous points, shall we? Let’s go back to rape. But, Corrbette, I don’t wanna talk about rape, you say. But guess what? I have the microphone and my voice is amplified and I therefore have the power so you’re coming down this dimly lit alleyway with me. See, power is what sexual assault is all about. And justice has no part in it. Justice is rapists actually being sentenced. Justice is education and cultural norms pointing AWAY from assault being ok and not electing it president. Justice is women not being told what to wear, where to go, what to drink, how to travel, how to make eye contact, what to say, and which self defense classes to take and not using her sexual past as a reason to rape her. (claps) WE DON’T HAVE ANY OF THAT THOUGH. Rape is used as a weapon of war, as a threat against any woman online (“in the cyber” if I use the parlance of our times and our President Elect). We hear a lot about why we should go easy on rapists because they could have their whole lives ruined, while the victims just retreat into themselves forever. Cause who cares about their future. Do they even sports? An entire football team stomped their feet and said, “No. NO HOLIDAY BOWL. NNNNO” when 5 or 7 or 10, eh, it was a group of em, so hazy, were suspended for raping a woman. Allegedly. Justice would be if those dudes understood that was the lightest of sentences. Instead, OH OK NEVERMIND. COME ON. (tousles hair) Ya scamps.

Can we use use Power for ourselves? Yes, Dorothy, you had the power all along. Jesus, get new friends.

Army vets came and put themselves in front of the cannons at Standing Rock. Apparently, we can’t see our own cruelty to Native Americans because brownish, so people who we claim to hold dear stood in harm’s way. The construction halted. Temporarily, but it halted.

A whole bunch of vaginas will descend on Washington to make their voice heard as our funding for basic care is stripped away. Black Monday in Poland was a whole herd of vaginas - ummm I think that’s called a curtain? A curtain of vaginas protested an all out abortion ban and that shit was shut right down. Hey, a woman’s body CAN shut that stuff down!

Inmates refused to show up for their slave labor-like work across the nation, and even paid workers went on strike.

People complain about how power is gained. No one likes the new rich, the entitled. No one likes dictators. And yet...here we are being lead by them. No one likes protests - oh they’re so inconvenient, oh my god you should be upset about this other thing instead. And yet, that is how power works. You have to flex your muscle, whether it’s by showing up in numbers or calling or yelling louder or just sitting in their damn way.

There is no justice in seeing the white doughy fuckwads of the world flexing their muscles. But there’s power in us all, and they will be terrified when they see it. Show up. Be powerful.

Could We Start Again, Please?

Ok, when I told people I would go back writing about when things annoy me, I apparently gave a big smoke signal to the universe to unleash the Annoying Hounds. I have been chased by their incessant whining, rug soiling and leg humping ever since.

So far, in the last two days, I have screwed up my face in unimaginable ways to keep from crying in public. Upon reflection as to how this looked, I probably would have been better off weeping. Instead, there have been reports of sightings of Unga the Mongoloid Girl riding the train and loping through downtown.

The weather is certainly a factor, here. Enormous piles of snow in your path act like a giant magnifying glass to your emotions, particularly when you're forced to trudge through it. Last night, after spending another train ride with a rubber face and squinty eyes, I walked through the slush. Cursing, catching short breaths, feeling generally soul-crushed. This morning, in better spirits, I laughed my ass off as I walked 3/4 of a mile in knee deep snow to get to the train.

Then I got on the train.

I live pretty far north, so a seat is usually a guarantee. Not today, kids. People slept on the train just to keep a seat - the commuter's version of the lawn chair parking space claim. Save that the commuter example is a fictional exaggeration, and the lawn chair is unwritten Chicago law.

So I was bumped and pushed a lot - fine. I can handle that. I'm used to it. I can handle that and drink my coffee, check my email and fix my makeup while you whack me in the hip with your Timbuktu bag, sure. But the woman with the mucous problem in the seat next to my standing spot was rather hard to take. Every five seconds, she'd let out a goober-gathering snort that lasted three seconds. With the remaining two seconds, she'd clear her throat in a way that sounded like she was trying to imitate a dying goose. Delicious.

I arrive at my office knowing it will be a short day, as there is an anniversary party for the firm, and I will be drinking by 4pm. Heavens, that will be helpful. Bring me a martini and we'll call it even.

It was, of course, cancelled. In its place, I was given a consolation prize of utter humiliation at the hands of a client. Seems like a fair trade.

Thanks to my system crashing a few days ago, the client received an erroneous attachment in an email that was sent, not once, but three times. I got wind of this via email first thing this morning. The client responded to every email to my boss, the last response reading, "That's three. I'd be embarrassed if I were you."

No problem. I'm waaay ahead of you, sir.

Before I could control it, my body gave me two choices when my boss came out of his office to address this issue: cry or get mean. Meanwhile, my boss was smiling, telling me it was fine and the client's a nice guy and I've worked with him long enough to know that. Others gathered 'round and offered their two cents on the matter, my blood rising to my face.

Naturally, I kept my composure. I stood with grace and dignity. I acted like a professional, having been in this business for ten years.

"He can suck a giant cock and he can swallow and I'm not working with him anymore."

That's what I said. To my boss. About this client.

I took a breath. He laughed it off. I decided it would be best if I just sat quietly for a bit. In order to help this along, every co-worker I have stopped by my desk for various reasons, ranging from cat advice to general office kvetching. No one ever stops by my desk.

I then discovered I was going to spend the rest of my day digging through twenty-some-odd patent files to find a document_ This day was headed for an iceberg.

I went upstairs to calm down. Maybe have a bagel that I'm not supposed to have, since my clothes are starting to leave marks on my body in protest to my expanding waistline.

Oh, did I mention I quit smoking a month ago?

Yes, I'm working out. Yes, it's temporary. But the weight gain makes me about as happy as Hitler at a BarMitzvah.

Yes. That unhappy. Don't you judge me, I'll punch you in the throat.

So I'm toasting my forbidden half bagel, then I decide "Fuck it! The day is already sliding straight to hell!" And I consume a half a custard donut while I wait.

This was underscored by two attorneys discussing their workout routine. Awesome.

As I leave the kitchen, another attorney sees my napkin filled with some foodstuff and says, "Surely, you didn't take a donut. You don't seem like the donut type." I don't even know what that means.

I think today is competing for a title of some sort. It can have it. And a sash. And a crown. And a parade. Just go away.