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Keep Your Hands Dirty

I may not know much. But I do know that I feel brutalized by this year, a year I'll happily roll into a shallow grave, hastily bury, and hustle away from. I know lots of people who feel likewise. I feel confident that if I was able, and organized a Kick the Corpse of 2016 party, there would be a line wrapping around the block and down the street to get in - scores of people stooping to lace up their steel-toed-est boots. Bet I could charge extra to kick it in the dick.

There's a hashtag. #fuck2016. When you earn a goddamn hashtag, you know it is for serious. In this shimmering and spastic age, it is the equivalent of having your name carved into the stone plinth of an immortalizing statue. 

For the handful of you that might actually read this, I am known as a person perpetually sitting in a burbling tub of vitriol. As such, it would seem my course is clear: continue to rail against the world and its idiocy. This I will do, for it's how I'm wired. I will holler myself hoarse. I will grit my teeth into powder and lean into the idiocy. I will carve crescents into my palms with my nails as I shudder in rage. I will bloody my knuckles on the brick walls of bullshit. But this is not all I aim to do.

I aim to hunker down and make the best, most fearless, most precise and clear-eyed art I can make.

This, finally, is the only means I have at my disposal to quiet the caterwauling hoggishness and dirtbaggery that abound. I am not an evelope-stuffing drudge equipped to dig like a mole at the mountainside that needs leveling. I am not a gregarious and earnest young person who can stand with a clipboard and accost passersby with well-intended imprecations. I am not a power-grubber equipped to roam the corridors of control to strongarm legislators and whatnot. I am not a preacher who can set souls aquiver to conquer the unrighteous peaceably. 

I write. I am a person who says things. As such, in the face of the rapidly massing clouds of shit storm that gather ahead of us. 

It may not be much, this arsenal. It may not amount to anything like a serious defense against the pummelling armored hordes that are pouring over and through our long-breached walls. It may not provide cover for the thin-boned and timorous remnants of our fighting force. It may be little more than the last whimpers of those consigned to the flames.

I concede it is not much. But it is what I have. And I'd rather die clasping it than to acqiuesce. 

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