Not Your Sweetie

== Resolutions For The Damned ==(Excerpts)
For 2003: Eat more veggies, have louder orgasms and, of course, defy
ShrubCo at every possible turn
By Mark Morford
http://sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/g/a/2003/01/03/notes010303.DTL&nl=fix



For 2003, Dubya has resolved to keep the fear-addled nation enmeshed in
at least one senseless oily insanely expensive unwinnable war for at
least the next two years, lining the pockets of his dad's Carlyle Group
cronies with countless millions in oil and military contracts, slamming
the environment and mispronouncing "nukuler" and misrepresenting himself
all over the English dictionary and embarrassing the nation almost
daily.



Dick "Facial Tic" Cheney has resolved to keep orchestrating Shrub's
every move from deep in the private fur-lined Cheney bunker, while his
lips continue to horrify small children and sexually sentient women
everywhere, as Lynne continues to publicly champion the cause of old
rich white powerful men and make Wolfowitz sweat with glee. So far, so
good.



Your frustration is shared. Your pain is widely felt. Your soul's
irresistible urge to scream a delicious curse word that begins with
"mother" and ends with "uckers" is mutual. Here is what you do.

You resolve to never let your fierce spirits sink below the waterline.
You resolve to make more meaningful eye contact. You resolve to limit
your exposure to angry scowling old white males who wield far too much
power with far too little juicy moral cream filling to roughly one hour
per week, max.



Resolve to be still. Resolve to get more deeply in touch with your own
bad self. Meditate. Write down your whacked dreams in a small
leather-bound bedside journal. Read them all at the end of the year and
see how your divine connections have evolved.

Resolve to love harder. Resolve to love harder even when love seems to
be staring at you and snickering and scoffing at your sorry ass.




Because damn if They, the powers that be, don't just love love love it
when you feel restricted and pigeonholed and beaten down and delimited
and utterly powerless to stop it all. Docile and submissive and ashamed
and just a little guilty of something though you're not quite certain
what -- that's how They want you. Resolve to castrate this sinister
ideology with a karmic switchblade and a shot of vodka.

Resolve, simply, to illumine your own life with nearly immeasurable
amounts of wet messy joy. Resolve to let almost anyone in to almost any
lane in front of you in traffic, even if they're driving an obnoxious H2
Hummer while wearing a backward baseball cap and spitting out the window
and don't bother to wave a thank-you. You resolve to shrug and ignore
them and get on with the process of moisturizing your soul.

This is what you do. This is all you can do. Because, as always, you do
not change the world by attacking it and hurling hot balls of fiery
angst into its eyeballs.

You change it by moving into yourself, peeling back the layers of
accumulated BS and media hype and marketing PR and finger-wagging
patriotic dogma, thwarting all efforts to confine your urge to color
outside the lines. Man, they just hate it when you do that.

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