So I’ve been staying in this hotel with a big, cozy bed with a thick comforter that would warm a witches mammalian protuberance. It’s extremely cold out. The last thing I want to do is leave this cocoon.
It’s time like this when I turn to a helping hand: an alarm clock, cranked to white-male-dominated contemporary country music (in Pittsburgh Y-108, or, as I refer to it, Hell in the Morning), placed slightly out of arm’s reach.
Today the first thought that violates my consciousness is:
“Them jeans are faded… in all the right places… you got me hanging on tight to your curves like little E races… feel like I’m tipsy… and I ain’t even had a drink… I wanna kiss you in the [WalMart?] parking lot.”
I make the long reach over and somehow find the snooze button. 10 minutes of respite from Purgatory. But time goes by quickly when you’re trapped between a bottomless pit and an endless fire.
It comes back, worse than before:
“I ain’t rich, but I damn sure wanna be… working like a dog all day, ain’t working for me… I wish I had a rich uncle that’d kick the bucket… and that I was sitting on a pile like Warren Buffett.”
After 25 minutes of telling myself that I can’t take it anymore, I finally roll off the bed and crawl to the coffeemaker.
Why do I voluntarily repeat this trauma daily? Because otherwise, I ain’t getting out of bed.
If you’re wondering who Donald Trump’s followers are, look no further than the bro-culture demographics of Y108.HELL. My aunt calls Donald Trump and his followers a “bunch of rednecks and yahoos.” If this is so–and there is evidence that it is–this insipid music is the soundtrack to their lives. Those kooks in Oregon are probably streaming it. We live in scary times, indeed.
Nietzsche said “that which does not kill me makes me stronger.” I agree; but my battered alarm clock begs to differ.
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