a-to-z experiment
"A is for absolutely the fuck not," starts Ohshestatted. (TikTok) She works her way through the entire alphabet, one letter at a time, and a good 40% of it is bleeped-out profanity. Stealing this idea to see if I can combine links and other small stories.
Today's alphabet
A is for Antibodies. Now that I've recovered from Covid, I am germatically bulletproof. I don't care if that's not a word.
B is for Bylines. I have four of them in this little local "magazine" called Stroll. One each for four different DC neighborhoods. All are about a small local nonprofit, and I'm psyched to see if the articles bring in more volunteers and/or donations. I can't provide a link because this is a very low-tech operation.
C is for Credit card. I got it replaced, finally. Get in bitch, we're going to Trader Joe's.
D is for Damn, look at Lady Gaga's bodyguard. (Twitter)
E is for the End of cool small cars. "The beautiful & blessed Honda Fit is dead in America." (Blackbird Spyplane)
F is for Fuckboy Museum, Deesha Philyaw's story in the newly released Peach Pit: Sixteen Stories of Unsavory Women. (Publisher's site). The story is vicious, hilarious, and has layers. I need more stories like this! Deesha even made a playlist to go with it. (Spotify)
G is for a shared Google document with updates on a friend's surgery and recovery. I'm keeping that tab open until I see a photo of her, fully healed, holding a cocktail.
H is for Hallelujah, as sung by this 12-year-old. My god. Talk about the book not matching the cover. (YouTube)
I is for Impulse buy. I must have bought the last one because I can't find a link. It's Marimekko, it's stunning, and I'm not even going to wait for an Occasion to wear it.
J is for Jamiroquai. This song, forever. (YouTube)
K is for Kafka, who, if he was still alive, could write another novel called The Application, in which refugees try to navigate the U.S. Immigration system. (I spent this afternoon at a church in Virginia trying to help someone file for the two-year extension. The process is fucking Byzantine.)
L is for Laughing at this Hard Times piece, and wishing I'd come up with that headline.
M is for the Mount Pleasant library's brilliant t-shirt. (Big Cartel)
N is for No. You can say it. You don't need to say why. Even if they ask.
O is for Outrage that no one told me about these genius brackets before I hired someone to drill into my concrete walls and ceiling so I could install curtain rods. (NoNo Bracket)
P is for Paxlovid, which left the most disgusting taste in my mouth for a week. I thought I was supposed to lose my sense of taste, not have it assaulted.
Q is for Quality time. I wrote about love languages before, and have since realized that I express love through acts of service and giving gifts, but I need to receive it through quality time.
R is for the Random man in Atlanta, a drama unfolding on TikTok in which one dude has 8 concurrent "baby mamas," none of whom knew about each other until number 7 went viral. They've all connected with each other, none of them get any child support, and we are days, if not hours, away from an epic confrontation. My fantasy is that they broadcast his castration live on TikTok. Without anesthesia.
S is for the Supernova ska festival I'm going to in two weeks. My IG stories will be insufferable. I even bought a ticket to an after party that goes until 1:30am. I will need shots of trucker juice to survive.
T is for "Thank you for hearing me." I learned of this Sinead O'Connor song when I read her memoir last week. O'Connor wrote the song after Peter Gabriel broke up with her. I don't recommend listening to it if you're mentally unwell, like if you haven't been able to do any cardio for a week because of Covid. I was sobbing, and it made me realize I couldn't remember the last time I cried. (YouTube)
U is for all the Used clothing I sort through every week, so I can fill orders for a network of people helping refugee families.
V is for Vasectomy, because I'm still thinking about the random man in Atlanta.
W is for Women facing discrimination in the workplace, no matter how old they are. (Business Insider)
X is for X-ray, because there are no other good words starting with X, and I'm due for another mammogram.
Y is for "You saved my bacon." During Monday evening's group tennis class, I was paired with an assistant coach for a doubles match. The dude must be in his 70s. He could hit the ball fine if it came to him, but struggled to move across the court. Every time I managed a volley shot and he didn't have to run, he'd say, "You saved my bacon." I told him I'm adding that to my LinkedIn.
I got nothing for Z. This was harder than I thought it would be.