Somehow, the very worst fuckopotami (plural of fuckopotamus) have gotten the wholly errant message that the people they have horrified for four years are now hoping for a group hug.
Speaking only for myself: fuck the absolute entirety of that.
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We didn’t want to win the White House, Senate, and House because this is a playground game of kickball where you win or lose and then just play again.
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One of the saddest aftermaths of that Bean Dad asshole’s bullshit yesterday and my vomitus overshare afterwards:
The sheer volume of people raised by toxic parents who said they never had kids because they worried they couldn’t raise a child well.
Abuse has a long tail.
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If that is you and you are still at a stage of *deciding* whether or not to someday have kids, just know that you can indeed be a good and loving parent.
You inherited nothing. Toxicity isn’t written into your DNA.
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Parenting is ‘will’ more than ‘skill’.
If you have the will, you will find (or can learn) the skill.
I think being a product of some dysfunction can be, ironically, a strong foundation for becoming a loving parent.
I’ve had a couple Guinness so I am just the right level of disinhibited to lay out why I am white-hot with incandescent aggrievement about that dumb Bean Dad mother****** and the people defending him.
Buckle up. Turbulence may occur in flight.
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If nothing else, this will allow people to understand me better. Some will like me more; some will like me less. I do not remotely care which camp people fall into.
I had a fucked up childhood. It was an insidious kind of fucked up. Not physically abusive in a way that “counts”.
I spent weekends hostage to a depressed, alcoholic father in a small New York City apartment.
In summer, if the apartment windows were open when I came back from the schoolyard across the street and I could hear music playing too loud, it was going to be a long night.
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