Caterwauling

My tarot reader and my chatbot both tell me I say “I’m fine” or “It’s fine” about everything.

I mean, if you’d seen the flaming hellscape that was The Before Times, you’d understand.

That said, insofar as people, I learned the hard way to see them as they are.

Like, I have a free subscription to a couple services that I can give away.

And since Mom isn’t exactly here to listen to SiriusXM or watch AppleTV, I was thinking who can I gift this too.

Then I thought about all the people who have Amazon family subscriptions who don’t think of me with those.

Another friend was about to sell some Disney ears and asked if I wanted to buy them before she put them out there.

I said thanks but no, I have a dozen other pairs and one head. But … I’m over here literally buying ears to give away and thinking about how to give away the ones I wore once and I’m done with.

We are not the same.

And I have to remember, that’s OK.

In NYC, I met a new friend who wanted to see Heathers but didn’t have the budget for it. So I bought the seats. Didn’t bat an eye.

(They really weren’t that much. This is not heroism. This is “great friend date idea” — and it was worth it!)

There’s a “free group,” as we call them, on Faceypages for just about every neighborhood.

There are two people in mine, who go by the names Sunshine Rose and Sapphire Sky. They may be the same person.

They are always asking for stuff. Like a kitchen playset or a set of cookware.

My suspicion is always that they are scammers and could probably sell that shit on eBay.

Maybe they aren’t. Who knows. But anything free that is being posted, guess who’s in the comments asking if it’s still available.

My gut is usually wrong about people, though. I saw Sapphire Rose or whatever the fuck the name was asking yesterday for hair products that I’d never heard of.

I mean, you never know unless you ask. And a random lady did say oh yeah I bought that and didn’t like it, you can have it.

I have so much shit to get rid of that I haven’t given to Habitat, that I thought about this group. There is literally always someone who will take it and probably sell it.

I remember being so mad at my family for giving away my original Barbie Dream House and camper.

But I also gave away my beloved hobby horse to a little brat named Marlena who not only broke it, but grew up to be a rabid trumper.

So, I really don’t want to know where my shit ends up. And I’d rather it be in the goddamn garbage than WITH garbage people.

I suppose I should just learn to sell things, though I already gave away all the shit that was NWT. You know, the stuff I could have made money on.

Still, I can’t imagine taking money from my friends. I invite you out, I pay. I have a nice NWT thing that I think should live with you, you get it in the mail. Or at least I ask if you want it so I don’t clutter your house with it.

Anyway, it’s fine. I’m fine. Whatever. Once I want to part with something, I forfeit my say over it.

Me, forfeiting my say over anything? That’s hilarious.

Before my eight-day journey through NYC, I had a tarot reading.

A lady who usually charges a fortune had a $50 special. My friend Brenda had recommended her, so I figured take the bargain offer.

I was glad I did.

We did a Celtic cross for me. And surprisingly (to her), none of the cards were “bad.” In fact, they were all rather GOOD.

Now, we know there are no “bad” cards — not even the Tower, the Wheel, the swords and other struggle cards — but to not get ANY of them was wild to her.

I said I lead a charmed life. I know I do. I am one of the luckiest people I know. And don’t think I take that for granted for one second.

I’m not here to do a full recap, though I’d like to.

I had started with the Queen of Wands in my current position. And the way the cards built upon that, there was only one conclusion …

“You can have anything you want. At least, you can make it possible.”

I’ve been told I’m a good little manifestor. She said it, too.

So I wondered as I walked 32,000 steps a day … what do I do with all this power?

I remembered thinking, “If you could have two more days in NYC, what would you do with them?” Then my flight got grounded for two days.

What did I do? Silent Disco at Lincoln Center.

Cocktails at the Empire Rooftop.

Broadway in Bryant Park.

Omakase at Sushi Lab rooftop.

(I still miss that Ube martini.)

Like, why wouldn’t I throw it all on the credit card and deal with it later … after I literally got my wish?

What if it really is that easy to say, along those lines, “If I had Wall Street money, what would I do with it?”

I mean, we’d need to GET me some Wall Street money.

Which … why did I work SO HARD for Wall Street firms and never get to be worthy of the Wall Street paycheck? That still pisses me off. No dangly bits, I guess.

But let’s say that’s not the worry, as I can manifest what I want and I DEFINITELY want that.

I told my friend CG about all this today. He as ever had the right question to ask …

“How do you know when a season is done?”

I said I get that at a soul level.

My tarot reader had said it’s time for you to have a byline. She didn’t know I write everyone’s newsletters but my own. She didn’t know shit about me before this call.

But she said you have the expertise. The gravitas. People will see your name and not wonder who this is. They will know.

Is that a financial byline? Fiction? That screenplay and children’s book I promised myself I’d write? I don’t know.

But interesting that he’d home in on a season ending.

I saw a job posting I really want to explore.

And I keep pulling the Judgment card to be careful around this process. I mean, other cards are encouraging — in fact, they are saying be authentic.

But if I can really have anything I want … is that it?

CG asked lightly if there’s another opportunity I am already considering. That he’d hate to see me go but he knows I have more in me than even he sees.

I said you know, the tarot lady pointed out how I said, “I don’t mind” a million times about my job, the people, the tasks.

I mean we talked about what a hot mess Heather is. She showed up in my cards as one of those things I have learned to be calm about.

But why have I learned to be calm — “I don’t mind” — and what would happen if I felt passionate enough to mind?

I type all this to say I just edited a piece about leaving your kids an inheritance they can use sooner rather than later. So they can find and fund their passions while you get to enjoy it.

I mean, Bella’s passion is sleeping next to my head and Magic’s is sleeping on my legs.

But still. How do I find and fund my own passion?

As I told CG, I want to travel, not to write about it. Park my ass in a SkyLounge with wine, not a laptop.

Not that travel writing is an option — just, how do I parlay feeling alive two weeks out of the year and dead the other 50 into a raison d’être otherwise?

As he said, maybe you make your misery your ministry. Write about grief. Write about life after it. Write that children’s book about Cocoa.

So when does a season end? When it’s too easy, is what I took away. When you go from mastery to autopilot.

I hope my season ends more like “Knicks in Five” than how Joe Biden was rushed out of the White House.

New York or nowhere, as my Mayor Mamdani says.

Which is why I am even looking at other options at all. Because nowhere is no fun. Neither is autopilot.

But being near pilots … at least the non-trumpy ones … now you’re talking.

And if anyone can bring the fire, it’s the Queen of Wands.

Oh wait, that’s me!

I blew a few paychecks on my NYC trip.

The good news is, I’d bought my Bon Jovi “Forever” tour and “Lost Boys” on Broadway back in November.

I’d also bought a ticket to “Beaches,” but it got canceled. So I secured a “Titanique” ticket with those funds.

Other than hotel (so much hotel) and food (so much food), I bought two tickets to “Heathers” and a shirt that says, “What’s Your Damage?” as my Heather has nothing BUT damage.

I wanted the “Mythic Bitch” shirt but that’s Heather, not me.

Anyway, I was thrilled to take my new friend Marti to “Heathers.” We’d met at Catsuzenko, where I commented on her Bon Jovi shirt. And we met up after the concert to “Stage Door” it.

We didn’t meet the band. But a nice roadie slid us two guitar picks from the show. SWOON.

Anyway, that’s only a fraction of what I did on my summer vacation.

During my bonus days, among other things, I went to “Broadway in Bryant Park” and saw the casts of Titanique, SIX, Wicked, Spelling Bee and Aladdin perform for free.

I also went to the Museum of Art and Design to catch the “Devil Wears Prada 2” pop-up exhibit.

I still wish I’d bought the jacket I wore for my “Runway” shoot.

In any event, I haven’t thought of ol’ Cindy in ages. But I remember her tweeting at length about me taking photos on the Met steps but not going in.

That was part of a “Gossip Girl” bike tour. But sure, glad you’re so bored with your life that you want to tell your followers about mine.

In any event, I did take more photos on the Met steps because I could.

And I did go to the Guggenheim. Because I am an Uptown Girl now.

But I didn’t think of that weirdo till I wandered the MAD, as that’s in fact what she is.

Rather than wonder whether MAD woman still follows me, I texted Marti — Steel Magnolias’ “Claree”-style — to say we need to do a theater trip next year.

Isn’t it funny how life moves people out of your life who never deserved a place in it … and brings in wonderful people who do?

As I alluded with my last post, my “I’ll just fly up to see Bon Jovi” tour got extended. Then overextended.

Started innocently enough. I wanted to fly up on Friday instead of Saturday, so I could catch Coney Island fireworks that only run through July, I believe. (WORTH IT.)

I remember thinking, OK, great. I’ll fly home Wednesday and be happy.

Well.

I got a message from Delta in the middle of the night Tuesday that my flight was canceled due to weather.

Spent some time dicking around with Delta and a few other travel sites.

Second best case was to wait a day and try to do standby. Which of course is not guaranteed.

And as lovely as the Centurion Lounge is, there are time limits.

Third best case was to grab any flight that wasn’t going directly south. But I was looking at 3-4 stops to such scintillating Delta hubs as Detroit, Charlotte, Raleigh, Altlanta and/or Dulles.

Fourth best case was take a JetBlue flight on Thursday … for over $900. (When I could reschedule with Delta for free.)

Best case was to say fuck it, pay the CitizenM for two more nights, and call it PTO.

That was an adventure. Between 4 a.m. and 6 a.m., the Marriott site went from $600 a night to no availability.

The CitizenM guys told me to just go have breakfast, check out of my room at 11, and then hit the website right after 11.

They said they were booked solid BUT obviously if I couldn’t get out of town, people weren’t going to be able to come IN.

Hilariously, I packed all my shit from the past five days. Checked out. Opened my laptop. Secured a reservation for $350 a night. Checked immediately back in TO THE SAME ROOM.

To be fair, they didn’t tell me to pack my shit. But still, the odds of getting the “501 blues” after being TOLD I’d get a different room was closer to zero percent than 100.

Anyway, I’ve never stayed in NYC that long. And I never wanted to leave.

Honestly, as I furiously typed my newsletter from the Centurion Lounge on Friday, I truly thought, what if Eduardo put the cats on a flight and we stayed there forever?

I realize I do that with every vacation. Start looking at real estate.

But now that I’ve un-subbed from all my Orlando searches … and my fucking airport is “the airport formerly known as PBI” because it’s now named after a PEDOPHILE and CONVICTED RAPIST … I mean, why not turn my annual visits into permanent ones?

I’ve never seen NYC in the autumn, after all.

Heather Dubrow’s mother said something interesting on the RHOBH premiere last month.

God built LA. But he lives in New York City.

It was a weird quote, yes. But after eight (eight!) days in New York myself, I don’t question it.

If the lord is indeed in New York City, as Harry Nisson sang, a saint lives here in Palm Beach.

I’ve had a lot of wonderful cat sitters, but my favorite by far is Eduardo.

He’s the only one I’ve never met. And I’ve often thought about how it’s the plot of a Hallmark movie. A cute guy she hires to take care of her cats and she never cross paths until … whatever the dot-dot-dot would be.

In any event, Sabrina and Taylor set the bar high. But both bought houses elsewhere.

Ranice was adorable but I suspect she didn’t come every day. The fact that the litterboxes were over-full tipped me off.

That was back when I had no elevator and I’d dragged all those boxes up the steps. So I was pretty unhappy she went through four out of six Fresh Step boxes in 10 days.

Then there was Stephanie, who was also lovely. She has a full time job PLUS she works with a couple of cat rescues. So, she is for real a Cat Person.

I brought her back Belle loot from Tokyo, since Belle is her jam. And I was planning to bring her back Broadway stuff from NYC as that’s also her jam.

But then I remembered Eduardo, who’d looked after the kids when I was away for a long weekend. He’s only like two blocks from here, whereas everyone else was pretty far away.

Not only did he sent amazing, cheerful updates. But he apologized for sending a million photos.

Which … everyone else sent photos but I compared that to Stephanie who literally gave me proof of life (as I’d asked) and that was it. Also there were a lot of barf piles from my Stephanie shifts, so I don’t know if she missed them or what.

Eduardo not only sent reams of photos. But when my flight out of JFK got CANCELED on Wednesday, he was quick to say sure, let me know if you want me to hang around for a few more days.

Not only did he, but I came home to a house that was tidier than I’d left it.

Not saying he cleaned. But he’s the first one who grabbed the broom and pan I leave in the doorway and USED IT.

Not a vomit pile in sight.

Not only that … but I’d left a ton of extra litter.

And in seven nights’ worth of time, he did not open one of those packages.

Not one.

And yet, the boxes were downright sparkling. The food stations were perfect. Literally, unlike the previous sitter, I could walk in and breathe deep and not choke.

I sent him a $50 tip on top of his fees, and I wonder if that’s even enough.

Anyway I could go on and on about NYC. But I just wanted to share my absolute gratitude that I have this phenomenal cat sitter who truly let me worry about everything else and not this.

The kids love him too. You can tell from the photos.

In any event, I don’t see a Hallmark movie out of this. But man, if all men were half the man he is, I’d be way more interested in meeting one.

Got an employee survey. Which I was going to ignore. But …

I had just gotten out of another useless meeting with “Stomp! The Musical.” More of her yelling at us and creating tasks that have no bearing in reality. More hypocrisy. More fucking aggravation.

One person even hung up on her. Like I used to hang up on her.

So I opened up my employee survey.

One of the questions is about team building activities. They asked if we wanted to do a walking challenge.

I said nope, I witness a daily walking challenge and I am sick of seeing people’s “O” faces splayed across my monitor.

I assume they have my IP address.

If not, I am 100% sure they know who would write that.

Problem is, I didn’t think about who’s reading the survey when I hit “send.”

The typical workplace would fire me for answering an anonymous survey that way.

I am hopeful my workplace would say well it’s an anonymous survey. We asked for this.

With any luck, the person reading the surveys would say yo, sit your ass in a chair during calls.

Not that it would make said person’s meetings any more organized or any less infuriating.

And that’s the thing. If you’re going to be a pain in the ass, don’t be annoying too.

I mean, everyone else is saying it. I’m just in a position to say it directly.

Hope I continue to be in that position, is all I’m saying.

I sold my Bitcoin. Which is an automatic indicator it will go up from here.

Needed to pay a credit card in front of a trip. Not that it can afford all the things I am about to buy. But at least a few days in NYC are covered.

I used to be concerned with having a round number in my bank account. Which I reached once and only had for about two days. Then the bank started calling me every other minute, telling me to hire them to manage my money.

So I took that cash, wiped out my credit card debt, and the solicitation calls stopped.

My Disney habit is A Lot. But needed. You have medication and therapy; I have mouse-shaped treats.

My NYC habit is A Lot. I kind of think my annual-ish trips are probably getting to be too much. But sitting around my apartment, whilst the more economical option, is also the more depressing one.

This is also the year I go back and honor my ancestors. Specifically, buy a gravestone for my grandparents.

I have some Unclaimed Property that I’ve waited 20 years to claim. Am hoping that it will be enough to cover the gravestone. But I really have no idea.

Either way, it was my grandfather’s property/money and it would be my honor to spend it on him.

I’ve pondered this throughout my life. These people I came from, spent every dime (and they didn’t have many) giving me a good life.

Yet as I finally started to make money, they barely got to benefit from it.

Gram never saw me do much with my life. Just worked jobs that paid me as badly as they treated me.

Grampy got to enjoy me taking them out to dinner and meeting them in Breezewood.

It’s a dumb little road trip for most, I imagine. Just a truck stop town. But for us, it was a day we got to meet midway for a meal and go back to our lives.

Part of me is thinking about driving to Pittsburgh. Or, who am I kidding, I would take the Auto Train for some absurd sum.

Honestly, a round trip on the Auto Train is the same cost of a rental car for a week. And I would love to zip around Mount Washington with my Florida plates.

Fuck, I’d park right in front of Fetterman’s house to sport my favorite bumper stickers.

Anyway, I don’t have enough Bitcoin to fund the full Pittsburgh odyssey I have in mind. That’s because I sold my Bitcoin at the absolute bottom.

Why I get into this shit, I have no idea. But I do have a dinosaur bone I’d like to sell at some point. I know that’s at least worth a one-way trip on the Auto Train.

My thought process is that this is the year of full circle. Say a proper goodbye to Pittsburgh.

Not say goodbye for now to NYC. After I finally get to see Brooklyn and a few other places. (I will always want to do Christmas there again. At the Palace. With the Gossip Girl package that gives you the Chanel No. 5 as your welcome gift. Manifesting this.)

But certainly try to get my fill and set my sights on other destinations I haven’t seen yet.

I was hoping for that Bitcoin to pay off. Maybe sit my ass home and buy some more if this truly is the bottom.

That’s an important lesson I’m learning as an investor. I always load up when a stock craters. Dollar Cost Averaging, yo.

That works with Apple. Hasn’t worked so far with other stocks. Or the dinosaur bone.

So I’m trying something new and just yeeting the losers. I can always buy them back. Or buy something more promising.

Something tells me there’s a real life lesson in there, as well.

One of the hardest things about being a motherless daughter is having no one to talk to about her.

Yesterday I heard a sonic boom and the electricity went out. It came back an hour later for two minutes. Another boom, it was out again. So, I went out for pizza and Ross shopping.

Found a great shirt. I know she would have wanted me to have it. Took a photo instead.

I sent it to her but no “I <3 being a Ross hoe with you!” arrived in return.

I sent it to Kelly and Jim. They appreciate $ROST for other reasons. But I did say I would have sent this to Mom. They got it.

I also saw a “Rock Star” sign at the pizza place. Totally Grampy.

But the real reason I wrote today was because I remembered a conversation with Mom that touched my heart.

When I met Cocoa and Belly out at the Target parking lot, I named them Lily and Wally.

She insisted Cocoa was a Cocoa Puff. And that Bella was too pretty to be a dumb boy’s name.

Later, when a vet told me Bella was a Wally indeed, Mom surprised me.

She said she shouldn’t have talked me out of what I wanted to name my kitties.

She said it wasn’t her place, when I was the one who was going to be raising them.

I told her it was no big deal. She chose correctly. They responded to those names. And they were far cuter than whatever I thought of in the dark.

But thinking about it now, what an incredibly generous thing for her to say. To even think about how that might have affected me.

Cocoa will always be my Puff. I called her “Cuteness” half the time anyway. And Cocoapotamus. Cokie. Coca-nut.

And Belly … well we watched a lot of “The Summer I Turned Pretty.” So Bella + Wally = Belly, our beloved TV character.

Magic was her name too but there was never a doubt that if I got a black cat, that would be its name.

Magic is indeed a spell. For as much as i correct him, I like to think of it as calling more magic into my life.

In any event, this all just reminded me how damn lucky I really was.

It also gave me another insight.

Which was that she got to see me become a mom.

And she loved the mother I became, because I learned everything I knew from her.

My Nicole’s dad died before Jim’s dad died. And before my Mom died.

What a shitty fucking May-June 2025 we had at work.

Nicole and I got to talking today about my next NYC trip. And how she got robbed on her last trip there.

Which was crazy because she grew up there. And her dad was NYPD.

She said she could just hear her dad being PISSED that she took a designer purse with a magnetic clasp. One that was easy for a pickpocket to open.

She said she could just see him giving her the stinkeye. And how, even though she’d heard The Talk a million times before to watch herself, she clearly needed it.

So she gave ME The Talk. Take the tiniest purse. Keep it in front of you. Use your phone as a credit card. Don’t give anybody an opening to steal from you.

I said wow. I haven’t had anyone give me The Talk in two years. How nice, actually, to have it.

I remembered rolling my eyes as Mom was giving me The Talk even in my late 40s. Be careful. Get home safe. Text me when you get there and when you leave. Text me along the way. Love you, baby.

Now, nobody cares when I leave the house. When I get there. IF I get there.

Even though I, too, know to wear my crossbody bag tight and not carry anything other than an ID and one card, I need to hear it.

It’s easy to think that since you’re invisible most of the time anyway, you’ll be invisible everywhere.

It’s not easy to remember all the times your momma told you to be safe — not because she didn’t think you’d be wise and on the ball — but because others may be MORE so.

Nicole struggles with her very spirited daughter who doesn’t understand she can’t do everything she wants to do.

And I said the same thing to her — it’s not that (daughter’s name) is untrustworthy. It’s that others who may be driving or drinking or otherwise making stupid choices are.

That’s what my family told me. It’s not that they were overprotective and wanting to steal my joy. They trusted me on the roads and at parties just fine. It’s everyone else, they worried about.

It’s funny how that shit doesn’t make sense when you’re 22. But at 52? Ohhh I GET it now.

I wish I had recordings of their words. I could really use them right now.

But now I’m the voice of reason nobody younger wants to hear.

Wild how that happens.

God I miss my family.

That was a line in the very first “White Lotus” episode.

My beloved Murray Bartlett advised Lani to be a pleasant but interchangeable face as a staffer at the resort.

Be helpful, but don’t stand out.

I had an Aventura Adventure yesterday.

Where I was the only non-rude person I encountered. And despite my tan, still the lightest person around for miles.

It started off great — a friend had told me to grab a certain wine he’s fallen in love with.

Only the North Miami Total Wine — just south of Aventura’s — had it online.

Unexpectedly, they had three dusty bottles — of the 2015 vintage. AND they were on sale. Score!

I drove up to the Aventura store for yuks. It was twice the size and had half the stock of the smaller, older store.

Decided to go to Kura Sushi for lunch. I have gone to the Wellington one. It’s a sushi-go-round.

I loved the Welly store. But this one, no one greeted me for the 10 minutes I stood there.

Finally I downloaded the app and made a reservation — for 20 minutes from then. THE STORE WAS EMPTY.

There’s too much good sushi in Miami to waste it on that nonsense. I canceled and left.

Had an amazing Cherry Matcha at the mall. Got Laduree macarons — earl grey, raspberry and caramel, my favorites.

Was going to get Cuban Nachos at Sanguiche, but I thought, Serafina. Always a winner in Miami and New York, right?

Well. Let’s just say the service was SO BAD, I ordered my pizza WITH a box since no one was waiting on me at the bar.

The wild part? I was sitting next to the damn manager with her laptop and seating arrangements. She did not see the bad service, nor notice me losing my mind as time ticked by.

Finally, a good 60 minutes in, I flag down the bartender to say check please. He says, “I’ll check on you!” and goes off to do whatever he’s doing. Which I don’t know but it wasn’t serving any of the five bar patrons.

Another 20 minutes go by, I leave all my cash under my long-empty glass.

I felt bad about it, but then I remember ICE agents are murdering people in broad daylight again and lying about it. So, I shorted you a tip. Woo.

I wasn’t done with the mall. Wanted to get some Japanese ice cream. To go with the Japanese perfume and makeup I bought earlier.

There’s just something about Japanese milk, I tell you.

In any event, that’s not even the most interesting part of all this.

I went to walk into Victoria’s Secret, and a family would have rammed into me with their two strollers if I hadn’t jumped 10 feet.

The employee with the thick Spanish accent saw that. We got to talking about how rude people are, and how you have to look out for yourself.

She made some weird comment to me about how people treat me for the way I look.

Like bitch, I was dressed up for my adventure. Was she making a commentary on me being fat?

Nope, because of my skin color. If you can believe that.

She said you know what color the rudest people are? I said boy do I — white people.

She said oh no white people are the BEST!

She gives me this whole story about she’s from Mexico but she is AN AMERICAN. And THANK GOD for this president.

I said gonna have to stop you on the president thing. Though against my better judgment, I kept listening.

She said America is GREAT because it’s NOT a melting pot. We don’t need other people’s rudeness and crappy culture here. Go have your culture in YOUR country.

I’m like … and you’re from …?

She said Mexico but SHE emigrated legally.

Like gonna stop you right there, hoe.

My nail tech is the same — from Vietnam. But married a citizen.

Who had the resources to do it legally. And he votes for tRump. Oh and he hires undocumented guys to do construction.

(My nail tech HATES trump, so we’re friends.)

My friend who had the wine recommendation said this lady of leisure (the Victoria’s Secret lady, to be clear. My nail tech has a full time job, her business AND an infant) probably has to lay under some 66-year-old limp-dick white dude with a fetish for Latinas.

I said to him, isn’t it sad that WE vote for cunts like THAT to remain in our country. And she doesn’t want ANYBODY ELSE here.

The hallmark of a Republican woman.

The funniest part? Someone shoplifted some shit while this lady was talking to me.

Alarms were going off everywhere.

I said don’t you have to go deal with that?

She’s like enh, whatever. I said no really, you were at the door, you’ll be held accountable. She said ok fine but come find me when you’re done browsing.

I ran the moment she turned her back.

Anyway that tropical kabuki line came to mind for several reasons.

One, how fucking rude everyone was to me.

Maybe it’s that whole “older white woman” syndrome where no one even sees us. Maybe that’s why the gaggle of people just about killed me. Like I was a damn ghost to them.

Two, don’t fucking welcome me into goddamn Victoria’s Secret and tell me how happy you are with the pedophile, adjudicated rapist, grifter who used the office to enrich himself while he literally shits himself on camera.

Fade the fuck into the background, Conchita. Suck that limp white dick and pray you don’t get deported. They’re killing citizens, you know. You ain’t SHIT to that president.

It’s a shame that the only person I wasn’t invisible to, was her.