I Did Something Very Stupid the Other Day

So, I’ve been feeling pretty good this week. The new book was released, I somehow navigated my daughter’s 21st birthday without too much fret that I was getting old, I’m just waiting for the green light to announce something else fairly major that I thought was coming this week and the weather has been standard Maine summer, which evokes a sense of positive nostalgia. Also, the hammock my kids got me for Father’s Day has really been a nice respite at the end of the day.

Several days ago, for the first time ever in my life, I was offered edibles — marijuana-laced foodstuffs. It has been preached to me to try smoking a little to see if it helps with anxiety issues, but with my wife working in a respiratory therapist’s office, she’s taught me to be smarter than to ever put any burning substance into my mouth and ingest it into my lungs. Weed smokers — I know you like preach that it’s more organic than cigarettes, and it is, but it is never healthy to have any kind of smoke in your lungs. Are you familiar with how they smoke meat? Your lungs are meat.

Anyway, though a third party, I was given a small tub of cotton candy and a chocolate bar. While my anxiety isn’t kicking my ass right now — it oddly hasn’t been since the start of the pandemic — I wondered if this might be the answer instead of the Ativan, which has some side effects.

I asked a friend who I know is a marijuana guy how many milligrams I should ingest. He said he didn’t know. He liked smoking because there was a fine line of edibles not working and of sending him into a deep high he didn’t like.

Like a geek, I looked at the Internet and it said that the first time user should go for 10-15 milligrams and appreciate that everybody’s metabolism is different. Some need more, some need less. Some hits fast, some takes forever.

My body is not predictable with chemicals. I don’t know if it has to do with the bipolar disorder or if I’m just a rare bird. I have no medical data to back this up, but I believe when I was 17 and had a nasty, extended case of mono that my body’s chemistry changed. Maybe it was coupled with the end of puberty, but I came out of it different than I went in. Suddenly things like codeine or Nyquil had a stimulant effect, yet to this day, there are also sedatives that my doctors have laughed about because they give me the dosage they start a 90-pound, 80-year-old person on and it knocks me out for two days. Morphine does nothing for me and I’ve had three hydrocortisone shots that have done the exact opposite of what they are intended. Anytime I try new medicine, I never know what’s going to happen.

I also wonder if the mono could have somehow triggered or aided the bipolar in developing because it was immediately after I recovered that I started having the kind of manic and depressive swings that marked the next eight or nine years. Whatever it was, my drinking increased a bit post-mono, but I discovered marijuana and for the first time in my life, I started feeling OK.

I’m not going to bore you with long stories of my extended adolescence/early adulthood. I don’t find them interesting either. Suffice to say, for three years, I smoked marijuana at least five days a week, usually seven. Much like the way I enjoyed drinking alone, I was not a social smoker. I did it on my own in a safe place. While it numbed me to the point of what most people call stoned, I tried not to overdo it. I just wanted to feel nothing.

But, feeling nothing isn’t an exact science and there were times the marijuana was either too strong or I didn’t pace myself. In my spectrum of intoxication, be it alcohol, marijuana, or one of the other substances I may have experimented with in my youth, I realized that I have different stages. The final stage, overdose/poisioning, happened a couple times but I don’t really tell those war stories anymore. The stage before that is being out of control. I can’t control my thoughts, my mouth, my actions. This is when I always knew to be in a safe place, just ride it out and not interact with people. Prior to that stage is very intoxicated, and then it winds down.

I don’t know if I was addicted to marijuana in those three years, but I quit one day, cold turkey, without even thinking about it. It was the week after I was put on anti-depressants and other anti-psychotic meds (I love the name…so dramatic) for the first time. I didn’t need the weed anymore so I stopped. The co-pay on the pills was much lower and it was still technically illegal at the time. (When I think about it, between the invention of the Internet, legalization of gay marriage, legalization of marijuana and this Coronavirus…my world is really different than it was 30 years ago. History marches on, even if you don’t feel like you’re part of it.)

I briefly returned to smoking for a couple months at 25 when I dated the woman I saw immediately before I met my wife. This woman smoked for a lot of the same reasons I did prior to getting on meds. Now, the weed just made me tired and hungry. I didn’t need it anymore and didn’t like the sluggish feeling it left me with. Prior to us breaking up, she started in on meds and her smoking dropped a bunch, too.

That was probably 2000 or 2001. Over the next 10 years, I took a hit off a joint or pipe four or five times total. Over the last 10 years, I haven’t touched the stuff once. Marijuana hasn’t been part of my life over the last 20 years. There’s been plenty of drama…weed just hasn’t been a player.

So, the other day, I took what I figured to be around 5 milligrams of cotton candy around 4:30 p.m. I wasn’t feeling anything by 5:30, so I took another 5 milligrams. I still wasn’t feeling anything at 6, so I broke off a piece of the candy bar, which I thought was 10, but turned out to be 25 upon inspection the next day. At 7 p.m. I was still not feeling anything, so I took another 5 milligrams of cotton candy.

And then around 7:30, it all hit. In my typical obsessive fashion, instead of taking the 10 to 15 milligrams and being patient, I had to keep adding on until I felt something. By the time I did, I was 40 milligrams in.

My wife knew that I was doing this and even she thought once 7 p.m. rolled around that my body had just changed and the THC wasn’t going to hit me. I was alone watching TV in our bedroom when it did because I just don’t like the Survivor binging kick my wife and son have been on since the pandemic started. I texted her to come in the bedroom and was completely honest, telling her that the sense of intoxication was coming on strong and that I may have gone too far with it, like my friend had warned.

When she came in the bedroom and I started trying to talk to her, I was immediately back at that place of being a 20-year-old kid, holed up in my room in my apartment, unable to put together a real sentence because my thoughts wandered between the start of the sentence and the finish. I felt nothing but shame. This was the bad kind of nostalgia.

Within this moment, there was the recognition that at 22, I never would have told anybody what was happening. The fact I could tell my wife open and honestly without fear is actually a big step. Shame forced me to hide so much in my earlier days. At least with my wife, I clearly was beyond that.

My son went to bed early since he now has a job that kicks his ass he has to be at first thing in the morning. Around 9:30 p.m., my wife needed to go to bed, so I went to the living room and continued watching Everybody Loves Raymond.

I next entered the phase of false enlightenment, when I start to understand the subtext of everything — even if it isn’t there. It usually starts as something stupid, such as recognizing that in Everybody Loves Raymond, the character of Debra is the surrogate for the audience watching, not Raymond. Or, that Michael Scott only plays dumb on The Office and he’s the smartest person there. You know…totally deep stuff. This also comes with a sense of shame because I know come the next day, I won’t find any of this stuff especially interesting, and am embarrassed I do in the moment because I know I shouldn’t be high to begin with.

After that comes the creativity. This surprised me. I spent the next two hours writing a series of disjointed paragraphs that could serve as openings to chapters from a couple different recovery books. I was thinking to myself, “Maybe it’s good I did this because I don’t have the next great idea yet and this is helping me!” But, the next morning I read over this stuff. While it wasn’t incorrect, it wasn’t exactly groundbreaking stuff. Reading it that next morning made me feel like an idiot because I know in the moment I’m writing it, I feel like a Pulitzer Prize, and perhaps even a Nobel Prize, is coming from my fingertips onto the page.

This entire time, though, there were introspective waves of regret for trying the edibles, knowing from the beginning there couldn’t be a happy ending. Sometimes the introspection was about all the mistakes I’ve made in life and others it was about how grateful I am to have what I have despite all of my bad choices and poor treatment of people along the way. I tapped into something in my mind that I hadn’t experienced since I was an addict more than six years ago. It was a level of self-loathing and regret I thought was behind me. I also had lots of jarred memories of being high when I was younger and what my mindset was then, a cross-section of naive optimism and a sense my future was doomed. Introspective waves are the toughest to go through when I’m in this condition. They are what make me feel completely out of control.

Then, it’s just a matter of being tired. This hit me hard around 1 a.m. as the effects of the edibles turned the corner and started easing off. I went to bed about 1:30 a.m., slept like crap and had a headache and dry mouth most of the next day. I also threw away the rest of the edibles. It was an experiment and a big part of me is glad it didn’t work because I don’t want to become a marijuana guy. I know every other person has their dispensary card and perhaps they can handle it better than me, but since kicking alcohol and porn, I don’t need something to extract me from real life. I prefer real life now.

This experience also reminded me that I’m getting older, my body isn’t what it once was, and there isn’t any need for me to seek any kind of medicinal relief because I have it under control. My issues with addiction were always about control and I don’t know if my marijuana use in my early 20s had anything to do with it, since I don’t think I was actually addicted, but with the lack of control it made me feel, I recognized that security is more important to me now than ever and the criteria for making choices as a 44-year-old in recovery is very different than the criteria of a 20-year-old guy who is just trying to navigate early adulthood.

The experience sucked, the lessons I learned were ones I probably already knew, but needed reinforced. It was stupid, but it could have been so much worse.

Remember kids, Just Say No.

‘I Would Definitely Recommend It’

I’m absolutely thrilled today to read the first professional review of my book, “Porn and the Pandemic: How Three Months in 2020 Changed Everything” and even more thrilled that it is not only a rave, but that the reviewer, Ashley L. Peterson, understood what I was going for with my presentation of the material.

Check out her review here: https://mentalhealthathome.org/2020/07/08/book-review-porn-and-the-pandemic/

And if you want to pick up the book at a special debut price of $14.95, you can visit the Amazon page HERE

If you are a book reviewer with a following and have interest in reviewing this book, please don’t hesitate to get in touch with me.

My New Book Has Been Released!

It’s always a lot of fun to write that title on one of my website posts. I’ve only been able to do it three times now, but each time, it feels like a massive exhale. Up until this point, the process of getting a book out is very private and solitary. Now, the words that I feverishly worked on, that I think are good enough to share with the world in perpetuity, that I believe are so worthwhile that they should have a small price tag behind them — it’s all out there for the world to see.

There is no more timely a moment to read this book than now. As we see cases of the Coronavirus surging in numbers and states starting to roll-back their openings, it means more people will be back in situations which make them vulnerable to pornography — either consuming it, or producing it.

Ever wanted to read first-person accounts of addiction from those dealing with it? Ever wanted to know what kind of person it takes to become an online pornography camera model? Wonder what this OnlyFans craze is about? Want to hear an unbelievable story about a man who is slipping his wife pills to help fight the STD he may have passed onto her from an affair, but refuses to tell her, blaming the pandemic for bad timing?

This is unlike any book you’ve read, because we’re all living this in the moment. At some point, it will become a book that can be put into the history section of the library, but now, it’s current events. Even if pornography and/or pornography addiction isn’t a part of your life, COVID-19 is part of your life, and this book shows how others are dealing with it.

I hope you’ll consider picking it up from Amazon. You can follow a link to read more about the book HERE.

Thank you to those of you who support me by purchasing the book. It allows me to continue the fight to educate the world about pornography addiction.

Porn Projects, More Frustration, An Eerie Thing and a Zipline Video

Time for one of those random thoughts/updates pieces. Too much rattling around in my head to put 800 words to any of it, and I just need to do some housecleaning in my head.

First, my new book “Pornography and the Pandemic: How Three Months in 2020 Changed Everything” is still scheduled to be released on July 5. I think it may bump to July 6, since that’s a Monday. We had to change the secondary headline from when I last told you about the project because the publisher was leery of a book title with both “Pandemic” and “COVID-19” in the title since some online booksellers are rejecting items with too many references to the virus. I guess it stems from people trying to sell non-book products that claim to help cure the coronavirus. That’s fine with me. I can see the new secondary title as more exciting, but wonder if putting the year in it will help or hurt.

I’ve got to start working on the marketing of the book, but it’s a little challenging. It’s told in first person, but it’s far more of a journalistic-style book that I think will be interesting to a wide audience than either of my first books…but I’m not exactly sure how to tell the world about it with my marketing budget of $0. It’s also strange because there was 22 months between the release of my first two books and only 5 months between the second and third. Last year at this time, I largely took the summer off from this blog and writing, going on a nice road trip. The virus halted most sales of my second book in its tracks because the bulk were going to libraries at that point. I’ve noticed it pick up a little bit as libraries become semi-active, but I think that second book would have sold hundreds of more copies if not for people’s attention, and their lives, being so disrupted by the virus. A library isn’t going to buy a book if it’s not open until further notice. I believe the new book is going to be much less expensive than the first two, but I’m just the writer… I learn a lot of these things when I see it for sale for the first time. I hope you’ll support me and I’ll share more when I know.

I’m trying to calm myself a bit from the anger and frustration I’ve been feeling dealing with and seeing so many ignorant people on television and online regarding both the virus and the changes happening, and being pushed for, regarding race in this country. There’s a balancing act between recognizing as one person I really can’t do much, but just because that’s true doesn’t mean I should do nothing. I’m just hoping that the polls I’m seeing regarding November’s elections end up as true. We’ve given the current administration more than three years to make America great again. They actually went in the other direction. I think Joe Biden’s campaign slogan should just be, “Make America like it was before Trump took over, then we’ll work on the greatness thing.”

My frustration comes from people believing that they don’t have to follow either commonsense guidelines or actual laws because they believe there is some “Constitutional guarantee” they don’t have to wear a mask. There isn’t. I think this is a combination of politics, people needing to feel rebellious and untreated mental illness at work. I just feel bad for the people who try to do the right things and get the virus have to battle for the same hospital beds as those who flaunted and ignored scientific wisdom. Science says the sun will rise tomorrow. Do you not believe it until you see it? People need to remember that science is neither a religion nor a political party. It’s the best collection of provable data we have — even if you don’t like the results. With the race issue, the statistics that prove its obviously a problem are just being ignored by people who would rather argue about knocking over a statue in some Virginia or Alabama park. Who cares about these statues? Black people are dying because of the color of their skin and sick people are dying because people don’t want to treat the pandemic as serious. It’s more important they be able to workout in a gym or get a burger. Great priorities.

So here’s kind of a weird story. A couple of weeks back, on June 13, I got a nice notecard in the mail from my mother’s best friend, Gwen. They were paired as college roommates and share the exact same birthday. You’ve never met two more different people and I think Gwen’s flighty and illogical life choices sometimes frustrated my mother. Depending on where Gwen was living, we’d see her three or four times a year when I was growing up. When I was in jail, Gwen wrote a couple letters that were really quite touching and I wrote a few back. That correspondence never would have happened had I not done time and since I was released four years ago, we’ve exchanged letters once or twice a year. I think I saw her twice, but it may have only been once since I was released.

It was just a typical check-in note, but she mentioned that she had finally got a phone that could do texting — which I’m guessing she’s had for years but just finally realized it. She gave her new number and I texted her two days later on June 15, but heard nothing back. I didn’t follow-up. Yesterday, which was June 29, my mom called me and told me that Gwen was found dead in her apartment on June 20. Gwen’s son was under the belief his mother had gone on one of her little coastal retreats, but when she didn’t contact him upon returning he eventually had the police in her town do a wellness check, where she’d had a heart attack…on the day I received her note.

I feel very bad for my mother. She lost her brother, who was her other best friend in January, and now Gwen. It seems like she and my father, who were very well known in our area since they were school teachers for nearly 40 years each in the same town, have been going to a lot of funerals lately. It’s mainly for their former colleagues or some of their friends, but I can see their own mortality has been weighing on them a bit. I now know where all the important papers they have are, what the will says and in the next few weeks, they’re paying for their funeral expenses. With my uncle gone, I was given power of attorney should they both be unable to make decisions. They’re approaching their mid-70s, so they could theoretically still have 20 years each left in them, but it’s been a different kind of vibe lately.

I noticed a little bit of that vibe changing when my 20-year-old daughter, 17-year-old son, and 72-year-old dad all went zip lining in Massachusetts the other day. We needed to go do something outdoors and fun and my son and dad have never done it before. Ten years ago, my dad would have been planning our next trip. After the two miles of zip lines and mile of hiking through the mountains between the various zip lines, he said he never had to do it again. Of course, he finished just fine. I was the one who forgot to bring water, overheated and had a pretty serious case of the dry heaves between lines five and six…but we won’t talk about it. I’m sure my kids also thought, “Dad is getting old” when they saw I needed to take a break and wretch into the woods.

Finally, I’ve teased that I’m involved in something big and could change the trajectory of my porn addiction education quest. I got word from the powerful overseers that I will be able to announce what I’m talking about next week.

Enjoy the Fourth of July. Wear a mask.

My Conclusion: It’s more important to me to be anti-racist than an educator about pornography addiction

Please note, I know this is twice as long as my normal blog entry, but I think it’s more than twice as important. I hope you’ll take the time to read it. I’m sure there are mistakes. I’d rather post it now and edit it better later.

About two weeks back, I wrote in this space about the issues I was having justifying trying to live a life that is anti-racist, not just against racism, and balancing that with spreading information about pornography addiction. I worried one would not always be copacetic with the other. You can read that blog HERE if you didn’t get a chance. It was something I have still been wrestling with and until I had my memory jogged very recently, it wasn’t clear what I should do. It is now.

In late 2008, I began the process of building the first issue of the magazine where I would serve as editor and publisher. Those first few months, it was really just me, the director of sales who was one of my brother’s best friends and the designer who also worked at the weekly newspaper where I was editor and publisher.

The first issue was to come out in April 2009, which gave us about six months to get things ready. I got a newspaper writer to contribute a major story and hired two freelancers to write some smaller pieces while I took the main story and the feature Q&A. I wanted to make sure they were high quality because if we swung and missed, there might not be a second issue, especially if we weren’t able to convince the community’s businesses that advertising with us was a good investment.

Thankfully, my fears disappeared quickly. We sold $9,990 worth of ads in the first issue, $14,000 in the second, $18,500 in the third and from that point forward, we were never under $20K, often reaching or surpassing $30K. The magazine was a success up until those last few months five years later when my addictions got the best of me and I lost the great people who were there in the beginning.

I don’t tell a lot of stories from that era of my life. I know the time and devotion I put into that magazine came at a hefty price to my relationships with family and friends (I’ve not spoken to that director sales once since he left in mid-2013) and my own physical and mental health. My pornography addiction and alcoholism reached critical levels at this point in my life. Despite having some crazy adventures and times that were genuinely fun, my overall feeling of that time is not positive. While it happened though, at least for the first four years, it was a great time.

There was only one thing that happened again and again that really bothered me and I didn’t handle myself the way I should have.

A Cultural Shift

About 15 years before the magazine began, there was a tremendous influx of Somali immigrants into the area I live. This happened in many other cities and towns across America as hundreds of thousands of people fled a genocide happening in Somalia. The first 10 years here were rocky as the Somali community leaned on social services more than the two cities that make up the region I live expected. You can’t have 10,000 people flood an area of 70,000 people with more than half needing social services immediately and not have a big effect on the bottom line.

We actually made national news when one of the mayors sent a letter to the elders of the Somalian community asking them to not invite family and friends who were settling into other parts of America, or those who were back home in Somalia to join them here. I knew this guy and while I can’t say if he was actually racist or not, I know the letter was intended to show a picture that our property tax rates were rising too high because of the need to support this community. He just did a very poor job explaining this position and unfortunately, many of the proud racists held up this letter as an example of “these people” needing to get out of our community. They knew nothing about the Somalis or their culture, but that didn’t stop them from spreading rumors like the government was giving them free cars or that they lived in apartments with goats. The racists of the community simply did not like the fact that our super homogenous demographics now had a large minority who were not born here and that they took up residence and opened up shops in the downtown area. This was the hustle and bustle and heart of the region in the 1920s through the mid-70s. Despite the fact the downtown was abandoned for 25 years, these old-timers remembered when it was hopping and somehow saw the Somalis as desecrating their history by setting up their lives there. I think it also stung that instead of becoming 100% Americanized their first weekend here, most of the immigrants held onto their traditions. And of course, the sudden opening of a mosque didn’t help calm things for those Christians in the area who were religiously intolerant of others.

Over the next 15 years, things settled down. Many of the older white people, and older Somalis, died off, so tolerance and customs grew slightly closer. While there was a lot of issues integrating Somali children into our school system early on – chief among them that there were many in their teens who had never been to a real school, nor spoke English – by the time the magazine started, there were now teenagers of Somali descent who were born here and spoke better English than a lot of the white people.

After renting a small space in an office building, when the magazine really took off in our second year, we relocated our office to a recently renovated storefront in the home of what had been dubbed “Little Somalia” in the downtown. It was only two blocks of Somali stores and restaurants with a few non-Somali establishments like ours mixed in, but if you said “Little Somalia” people knew what part you were talking about. We recognized that we were going to be a minority in the neighborhood, but we also thought that it sent a message that many needed to get.

I went on the major sales calls with our sales director. When the second biggest hospital in Maine or the largest real estate company within 50 miles were dropping $20,000 in advertising with my company for the year, I found it was always good to make an appearance and personally thank them.

Meeting our Racist Customers

As success came, and our staff grew, we made every effort to reflect our entire community and that included our Somali community. We would profile their restaurants, other businesses they owned and noteworthy member of their community – because they were noteworthy members of our entire community. We believed that they only way to push the cities forward was to do so with a sense of inclusion. Every member of our community should be represented.

Once in a while I would service an account for a smaller company. When things really got rolling and we became a bit of a well-oiled machine, I spent as much time with sales as I did with content.

I don’t remember when it exactly happened, but probably 10-12 issues into the magazine, we ran a cover story about the traditions of the Somali community to help continue to bridge the culture gap. The front cover photo was a beautiful Somali woman wearing the traditional Somali garb including headscarf. Not all Somali women were continuing with that tradition, but it was one of those things we explained in the article, nonetheless.

Over the next several months, as I was out doing sales, I heard from many of the smaller business owners how we shouldn’t have put her on the cover. I heard that we shouldn’t write about their restaurants because “those of us who are really from here don’t eat at those places” and that we didn’t talk about all the crime “those people” brought to the area (despite the fact statistics couldn’t bear out that belief.)

I heard from our sales manager and my assistant editor that they had been met with similar responses. I felt bad that despite the Somali community making up around 15% of our population, we covered them with far less than 15% of our stories. That said, Somali-owned businesses made up less than 3% of our advertising base and less than 2% of our subscriber base. Sure, they were part of our community, but they were not helping our business stay afloat. The sad reality was, many of our advertisers and readers who were keeping us afloat were racist.

We talked about this as a staff a few times, with everybody disgusted this kind of racism was still in our community. Ultimately, I think it was decided that while we would never agree with someone who slandered Somali people, we would never lecture them on what we knew to be the truth if they spoke incorrect facts, nor would we engage in a philosophical discussion of why they were welcomed and why racism was wrong.

Maybe we didn’t come to a group decision on this. Maybe it was just me. I don’t really remember 10 or 11 years later. I was afraid to alienate anybody who was sending money in our direction because while we did OK, we were never rolling in it, and I wasn’t great at managing our expenses.

Taking the position we did nagged at me for a while, but it wasn’t until my recent pledge to myself to not only be against racism, but to be anti-racist that this memory came flooding back. Back then, I rationalized that not being racist was enough. I didn’t want to hurt our bottom line, so as long as we were not part of the problem, it was OK if we weren’t part of the solution in face-to-face exchanges. I rationalized as long as the Somali community got some coverage, we were probably helping, right? Right? Maybe?

The reality was, we weren’t part of the solution, so we were part of the problem. Just like it is now, the racism we were met with should not have been tolerated. The Somali community didn’t have advocates, didn’t have any local government representation, nor any real influence in the larger community. They were not going to have the opportunity to confront these racist situations that we were faced with because they’d never have a one-on-one conversation with these people. And what did we do? We dropped the ball. I dropped the ball.

Time to Change

No more dropping the ball. That’s done. I’m a better person now. I’m a healthy person now and I want this world to be left in better condition, with better people than when I got here.

Pornography addiction education and awareness is hugely important in my life. It feels like my calling and I am all-in on trying to teach everybody about it and help those who suffer with it, and their loved ones who suffer in different ways alongside them. I would never turn my back on anybody who needed my help.

That said, if somebody I was helping asked me something offensive like, “You don’t help those (N-words) with this, do you?” or some other racial slur, I would tell this person forcefully that they were never to say that kind of thing in front of me, that having that kind of attitude was racist and wrong, and that they were ignorant. Hearing it a second time, they’d be gone.

It would be the same if that person started to tell me that systematic racism doesn’t exist within police forces and the court system, even if it’s unintentional. I’m not looking to pillory a boogeyman, I’m looking to educate. We have enough statistics – ironically provided by police departments and the courts – to prove institutional racism. Is it intentional? I would like to think in most cases not, but it is still there and it needs to be addressed. I’m not looking for the cop or the judge to blame, I’m looking for how we fix this.

But, if that person I’m helping continued to tell me that it didn’t exist and they weren’t willing to listen to reason and facts, preferring to fall back on their ignorance and hate, I’d be done with them. They clearly have a bigger problem than pornography addiction.

Early today, a discussion between myself and a longtime follower was escalating on the comments of their page. I believe they can’t recognize their racism and largely look to the conservative talking heads for their speaking points. I asked for clarification on some of the things they said, and asked for documentation and statistics to back up their position, but I doubt much is going to be coming at me. They are wrong.

This isn’t an issue of appreciating someone else’s religion or even political views. Racism is not a political view, it’s just wrong. If 85% of black people say something is racist, you don’t get to tell them that they’re wrong and you’re right. You’re wrong!

I didn’t block this person, and while I doubt they’re going to respond with anything to defend their position aside from more of what Tucker Carlson said last night, if one more word racist word is spoken, I’ll retort and then be done with it and block them.

Ironically, as I was editing this, the person wrote back. Do you think they provided a single statistic? Nope. They’d talked to minorities in their life, so they knew the real score. I made the smart move and responded with a sentence or two that simply said they had no statistics and much of what they said could be interpreted as racist and I hope they one day would understand why. I’m not writing paragraph after paragraph to this person any longer.

I’m anti-racist, but it doesn’t mean I’m going to beat my head against a wall trying to explain to someone why they have a broken brain and dark heart. I’m going to explain it to them a few times and then I’m moving on. I will not continue to engage with ignorant fools. It’s what I need to do for my mental health.

A Paragraph With More Profanity Than You’ve Seen From Me

If you feel like I’m describing you as one of the racists, I guess I’d request you move along, out of my life. If you can logically defend your racism with statistics and back up your facts, I’m all ears, but if this is because your daddy didn’t like the black neighbor, you’re a fucking moron and I just don’t have room for fucking morons in my life. I’m going to stand up to them two or three times, but then be done with it. If you’re one of these fucking morons, save me the time and unfollow me now. If you have racist views and want to have a logical conversation, I’m your man. If you’re not racist, then start speaking up because not being racist isn’t enough anymore. It’s time that we are anti-racist and we call these fucking morons out.