More Reasons to Not Be Sad: A Continuation

It may be my narcissistic tendencies, but I got a lot of response from my last post, Reasons to Stop Being Sad: A Personal Account.

I’m going to go ahead and take that as a green light for a continued list of reasons to be happy. Or things you should try? I don’t know. It’s more or less things I love, which I feel that everyone should.

That, and I was a tad bit drunk when authoring my last post. I had more to say, but pasta and sleep won. Happens!

12. You can do whatever the fuck you want. Really. Now this one demands your dedication, but we all have the potential to do just about anything at all. So, really, you could look like this:

 

You have this potential. Not just in looks, but in everything. So do you really want to miss out on that? Didn’t think so.

13. Aurora Borealis

The Northern Lights. Beautiful, elusive, and pictured all over the Internet. Which is why I won’t bore you with another rendering. I include it on my list, because it’s something beautiful. And you can go see it if you want. With a slew of other natural phenomena, how can someone only see the sadness of the world?

Don’t answer that. Just go find the Lights.

14. Jenna Marbles

A YouTube celebrity. Adorable, cheeky, and possessive of the balls to say a lot of things you wouldn’t. I know for a fact that males think she’s all hot and shit. So, if she weren’t funny there would still be that. I’ve been obsessed with her forever and have been known to try and make myself more like her. No shame, right?

15. Parks

Parks with lakes, lakes without parks, parks without lakes that have jungle gyms. Basically, any semi-open place, that is outdoors, and has grass and trees, with little or no concrete or buildings in sight. The exception being if the concrete is there to facilitate a walking trail to avoiding blazing your own trail. I like nature, but I don’t want to work that much.

I’ve learned that few things cheer a gloomy soul like a warm, sunny day in a quiet park. A bench or a walk provide the perfect spot to reflect on this and that. Careful with this one, though. We all know the dangers of over-thinking, locking yourself in your own brain. I feel like there’s less risk in a park, though. Nature makes it hard, at least for me, to be a sad flower. Plus you can take your dog. Or cat, if you’re feeling brave.

16. Rearranging your furniture

Or hanging new art on your big, blank wall. Like I did today:

Personally, I find it extremely gratifying to walk into my room after a long day, and be able to smile because I made it someplace that I want to be. It’s comfortable, it’s clean, and it smells nice (most of the time, my cat, Gatsby, ruins that sometimes). It is my sanctuary, my escape, the place where I can take a deep breath and say, “Fuck all of you out there, I’m in my happy place.”

Don’t be sad, because no matter what, you can find a space for yourself. And there, you can do whatever it is that you do. You can create and hone and just be. I never really understood why my parents never wanted me to have a TV in my room as a child, but I totally get it now! I have one, now that I’m an adult, but I basically use it for background noise when I don’t feel like listening to music, or a happy glow while I’m trying to sleep. Of course, I also use my TV for number 17.

17. Pulp Fiction

John Travolta, Samuel L. Jackson, perfection. So great. Not to mention….

18. Brand New

Jesse Lacey, Brand New front man, with the voice of an angel. “Jesus Christ”, “Seventy Times 7”, two of my favorites, plus the entire Deja Entendu album. It’s an eargasm. Oh, and The Devil and God are Raging Inside Me album. You know what, just go find all their music and block out a day to listen to the angel sing. You’ll thank me, swears it.

Annnndddd there we go. These are a few reasons that help me stick around when I just don’t think I can handle it. Sometimes you just have one of those days, and you need a reminder that the world, does not, in fact, always suck so much.

And if you hate all my reasons to stop being sad, then go find your own, and share them. Though I think my list is just about as badass as it gets. I’m also biased and, like I said, a bit on the narcissistic side. 🙂

Posted in Anger, Art, Depression, Happiness, Humans, Humor, Movies, Music, Observations, People | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Reasons to Stop Being Sad: A Personal Account

If you need a reason to like life, join the club. Because, as I’m sure you have figured out, considering you’re reading this, meaning you would need to be old enough to use a computer, it’s a big, stupid, mean, nonsensical world out there.

So here we are in our clubhouse. We don’t have a golf course, or a pool, or cabana boys, and we’re not even really a club, but you should join us anyway. Because everyone alive is a member. So I think it means you’re dead otherwise.

If you don’t have a reason to like this place, it’s damn near impossible to like anything at all.

Now I know you’re thinking to yourself in your dark bedroom, Hawthorne Heights screaming into your headphones:

This bitch? She doesn’t know me! She doesn’t know my PAIN! I’m SO MISUNDERSTOOODDDDDD!

Well, sir or madame, or gender confused being, dog, cat, alcoholic, mysterious Russian Spy preferably named Svetlana or Nikkola…

I got it, I get it, and I had a breakdown in my mother’s car while selling cakes to people that don’t want them over it today.

I am…was? are….? Not sure, really… Clinically depressed. I am medicated, more than I would like to be, might I add. And I am still figuring out, like, everything. I’m a clusterfuck mess.

But I know.

Terribly personal, and frankly morbid as it may sound, I’ve often thought that my crash-landing via gyrating sexual organs to this strange and confusing planet “Earth”, was a simple, and irreparable mistake.

Suicide? Contemplated it, sure. More than once even. But it’s pathetic. Sorry, but it is.

Why? Because I have had multiple people, close and not so much, that have been unable to realize things that I have had the good fortune to discover through my shit. They didn’t see what I see, and they didn’t know how to get outside of themselves.

It’s not their fault, as sad it is. I know how tormenting being stuck in a set of blinders really is.

For those that have been biologically blessed with normal levels of serotonin in their brains, allow me to express my best interpretation of what it means to be clinically depressed.

For me, I am in winter when everyone around me is in summer. And I hate winter, for whatever reason. It brings bad, bad, and more bad. Especially at Christmas, ironic as it sounds. I’m in a bubble that’s super duper cold and snowy and cloudy and dark. But I can see outside and it’s warm and sunny. All my friends are swimming and getting tan and falling in love.

I sit in my snow globe.

It’s the most barren, blank thing you can imagine. It’s a big, and white, or black, bland, or blurry, or just nothing. Sure it’s a lot of sad emotions that you can put a label on. But those are symptoms. The worst, the absolute worst part is the nothing part. The part that, God knows why, people can’t see. That’s the part all that hurt comes from.

The worst part of being you is the part you can’t define. Because that’s what it is. Depression is an absolute piece of who you are. And you can’t say for sure what it is. Or at least I can’t.

Think about that. You can’t fix something you can’t really see or understand, can you? No.

And that’s what a lot of people don’t get. They don’t understand why people like me can’t change what’s wrong and move on. It’s just not that simple. And I would never blame anyone, not in a million years, for not understanding. Because that means they have something beautiful doesn’t come so easily to me. Not without therapy and medication, definitely a lot of tears.

How could I wish for someone to be the way I am? I can’t. As malicious and hateful as I know I have come across before, I would never wish for anyone to be the way I am.

But I am thankful.

I’ve learned things from my undefined, gray, solid blob of pain that sits in my gut like a rock sometimes.

Most of all, I’ve learned that beautiful statues, art, figures, whatever, come from misshapen, jagged rocks.

I’ve learned that you can transform anything into almost anything else.

So if you can’t, here’s my attempt to make you a happier human.

1. Chardonnay

I’m not encouraging alcoholism. But it’s fucking delicious and one or two glasses won’t hurt your sad little face. Drink up, cheeky bitches.

2. Cats

Google cats, love your life. Smple.

3. Friends

Everyone has friends, even if they don’t realize it. If you don’t, work on it. It might be your weakness. If it is, overcome it. Find someone who gives a shit. That’s all you need. There are good people with good hearts in the world, as hard as it is to see. If no one else seems to care, fuck them. Because I will.

4. Singing in the shower

Make yourself. You won’t stop. I guarantee. Get into it. Striptease, air guitar, Harry Potter, Soap Mohawk, dance? I don’t know. Do your thing.

5. The beach

I don’t care if you think I’m a Tumblr whore for saying it. You can’t be sad on the beach. Unless there’s a hurricane. But that’s a whole different set of issues. Prioritizing is key. Find a jet ski if you can. That’s like adding lube to sex.

6. Nothing Bundt Cakes

Originated in Las Vegas, made it’s slutty way to…everywhere. Nom some bundtinies, love your life. Then thank me for it.

7. Family

It’s a loose interpretation. I know people suck sometimes, even if they gave birth to you or are related to you (doesn’t apply to me personally, but pretty much my entire group of friends). Family doesn’t mean blood. This is related to friends, of course. But I firmly believe that every human is capable of love, and therefore capable of having a variation of family. This one is important, though. If you don’t rely on yours, you pick an alternative one. When you pick an alternative one, you have to trust the ever-living shit out of them. It’s hard. And you might get fucked over. But people aren’t the same. Don’t give up. You’ll find your family if you weren’t born into a great one. And if you were, don’t you ever fucking take them for granted. In fact, smile if your parents are even still together and love you. It’s rare. But find your devoted, they are out there.

8. The Great Gatsby, The Perks of Being a Wallflower, Harry Potter


The favorites. The greatest. The Great Gatsby, though not the most uplifting, beautiful. The Perks of Being a Wallflower, if you’re sad, you’ll love it. And have probably already read it. But if you haven’t, trust me. Harry Potter, don’t really need to explain the sort of genius that is madame J.K. Rowling. But if you aren’t aware of her absolute masterpiece series, or simply don’t care……..get off my blog.

I’m just kidding. Sort of. But the world she created, in that beautiful, absolutely wonderful mind of hers, should cheer you right up, poppit.

9. Sir James Franco/Master Heath Ledger

I don’t care if you’re a dude. Tell me they aren’t sexy and I’ll know you’re lying. Even if the redeeming qualities aren’t looks, they’re great actors. Heath Ledger, RIP. Also I’d like to add Johnny Depp. Fuck yeah. Oh, fuck yeah. He’s a motherfucking badass. He’s so awesome, not to mention hipster, that only the awesome ones who care enough to read this whole rambling thing get to know that little happiness tidbit. So HA!

10. The Beatles

Fuck you if you’re ignorant enough to be unaware. (There are exceptions, but not many. I just don’t want to make judgments, OK?)

11. Matilda

Not so much the movie, (though you are an idiot if you don’t like it) but the Rusted Root song, “Send Me On My Way” I was introduced to because of it. Take a listen, you can’t be sad when you hear it.

 

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Blanger

Simple math:

Blog + Anger = What?

Anger.

It truly amazes me how people channeled their anger before the Internet.

If I couldn’t say whatever I wanted about people who anger me, anonymously, well, let’s just say therapy isn’t that effective.

And a diary would not suffice either. I’m not Anne Frank, and I’m not a sixth grader who thinks she is the next Emily Dickinson. (But I would like to add that in my formative years, I walked around my middle school with a quiet sense of superiority, because, DAMNIT, I wrote some DAMN good angsty shit!)

No. If blogging didn’t exist, I would either A. Have no friends because the full wrath of my anger would be unleashed upon their poor souls. Whether anything were their fault or not. Or B. I would have all the friends in the world! Except they would be more like fearful minions doing my bidding. Fear does that. Turns you into a little minion fuck. Which is why I’m not scared of anything.

Regardless, thank heavens that forums like this exist. Not only can I be as ruthless (or not) as I wish. I can also make myself sound like a total fucking badass. To anyone that cares. Which is no one probably.

And I probably just sound like I’m trying too hard. It happens.

The way I look at it, there’s no point to documenting your anger, misunderstandings, frustrations, etc. if you’re going to be the only one to ever read it. What good does that do? Personally, I would just go ape-shit all over again when the day came to go back and read about myself.

But when you put it on the Internet, you don’t just put it on the Internet. With the knowledge that others have the potential to read what you write, you try and craft a cohesive story. And you add humor so that people give a shit and don’t think you’re a whiny little bitch. And then you really do stop being a whiny little bitch. When it’s funny and sarcastic, it is a thousand times easier to stop dwelling on whatever angers you.

THAT being SAID…I think we can agree on the fact that all of you people who are letting the world know that you are, in fact, a wonderful person because you are tweeting/facebooking/texting/writing poetry/writing it on your cars in shoe polish/I made a flag about it once and hung it up outside my house. It was blue…. about being at church. On your phone. In the middle of the sermon. That you are blatantly ignoring, whilst broadcasting your hypocritical, and dreadfully synthetic facade of a life.

Let me back up. If you go to church on the reg, not just on Christmas or Easter, my sincerest apologies. But that’s not the case, is it? Be honest. I didn’t think so.

If you don’t go, you don’t go. Fine, do your thing. But why do people think it’s OK to obnoxiously let everyone know on the rare occasion they do? Normal people do not take pictures in the lobby at church every Sunday. They just don’t. You would know that if you went on days that aren’t significant on the church calendar.

FURTHERMORE, don’t you think it’s a little irritating when people gush all over social media stupid retarded shit about things that are important to you, that they obviously know nothing about? And not just “Oh this is so fun! I want to do it again sometime!!” It’s the ones that are all “I am so awesome at ice fishing and it was so much fun. Going to get a new parka today!! I am such a pro! Seriously, a natural.”

Translation: I sat there, froze my tits off, fell in the hole, got frost bite, amputation. Life sucks. I’m never going ice fishing again because it’s fucking awful and no one should ever do it.

And you’re sitting there, an ice fishing FANFUCKINGATIC! Does that anger you?

Because it’s the same thing with church and the ones who go rarely, not paying attention, but figure they’ll use it for self-promotion.

I’m glad you feel better about yourself, and I hope I’m wrong, and that some people do actually go for the purpose of spiritual rejuvenation…But I’m not. And you’re pretentious. HAPPY EASTER!

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On the Subject of Giving Credit Where It’s Due.

This morning, while sitting, scrolling through Tumblr (something I rarely do, lots of cliches, you know), a thought I’m almost positive is brand new to me popped into my head.

Do you think all those writers who write scripts for those famous movies ever feel completely unrecognized? All those actors who say those words that stick in our minds and morph into famous movie quotes, repeated by everyone and their dog, whether they ever see the movie or not…

Don’t you think the writers get pissed? They get none of the glory!

True, the actor gives life to the character. Their job is to inject a persona, an authentic flavor, a believable emotion into what would otherwise be nothing but words typed on a piece of paper. The good ones do that, anyway. Hollywood, in my opinion, is getting lazy about the idiots they allow to say lines in front of camera nowadays. But that is neither here nor there I guess.

But really, the actors aren’t usually the ones to come up with those clever one-liners or the one-of-a-kind catchphrases. They don’t create that unique, irreverent quotation that will one day be turned into a pop culture question in Trivial Pursuit.

I know it’s silly. No one knows who those people are, and there’s probably a reason for that. I mean, for all we know, the guy who decided that Rose would “never let go” or the lady who wrote the famous “Bueller….Bueller…..Bueller….” scene, could be very unattractive people. Like, fat, pimply, never shower, socially awkward human beings. It’s entirely possible.

But still…that doesn’t mean they shouldn’t get credit for knocking one out of the park. These are the people that tug at our heart strings, make us cry from laughing, or have a strong urge to punch someone in the face.

The actors give the words life, but they don’t give the movie the words. You can’t have a movie without words.

So, movie writers…You fucking rock!

This post has morphed into a creature unlike any I’ve seen before my very eyes.

I didn’t mean for it to apply only to script writers. I mean give people credit for the shit they do. And if you don’t get any, find a way to get some.

You go, Glen CoCo.

You go get ’em.

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Gatsby the Catsby

20120328-093207.jpg

Named after a gem in the mines of literature, yesterday was hard for my precious feline. He no longer has any balls. All I kept thinking about was the word “castration”, because that’s essentially what I did to him. Oh, well. I’d rather have a cat, sans testicles than have a cat who is also a kitty daddy.

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Tennis Players: Sex that Court, Whack those Balls

 

To put this little gem you’re about to digest into a “sports” category killed me a little bit. Actually, a lot. But it made logical sense, and I didn’t feel like arguing with logic today. So here we are.

I hate organized sports and I think they are terribly boring, monotonous, pointless, a slew of other negative adjectives, blah, blah, blah. Sorry, I do. I’ve tried to see the point and fake interest, but it’s much too painful. Though not quite as painful as my mother telling me I’m never going to get married because of this horrendous character flaw of mine.

Spouse or no spouse, I don’t get it. How those crazed, die-hards are able to stand in the freezing cold or the mother of heat waves in June, just to watch a bunch of sweaty men (or women, even worse) throw their balls around, is so far beyond me.

I grew up in Texas, where football is religion (If you haven’t read Friday Night Lights in all of its monotonous glory, it’s spot on in depicting just how obsessed people are with something so stupid). AND I was a cheerleader. I also despised each and every second of it. Note: I mourn the loss of four years of my youth, subject to the tyranny of an evil cheerleading coach, which I endured because I was under the impression that I needed to waves poms and get kicked in the head in order to get into college. No. So wrong. Don’t fall for it. 

It’s bad enough to be a dumb, dancing puppet for a crowd of brainwashed sheep. Our sole purpose was to try and get them to yell louder than they already were for pimply, douchey high school boys that could barely pass Home Ec. But when us perky, spirited supporters weren’t mindlessly doing that, we had to watch them run around and hit each other. Cool sport. Really, really awesome. Next they should hit each other with clubs and see who passes out first.

This is generally my attitude toward every sport there is, though I do occasionally (very, very occasionally) indulge in watching gymnastics, dancing, professional competitive cheerleading, or figure skating if it happens to be on TV and nothing else is on. Judge me.

I acknowledge the amount of physically demanding training that any athlete must endure, so I don’t want to hear it. I’m not trying to offend any of you lovely people who give a shit about reading any of my psychotic brain vomit.

But I do want to talk about a sport of a different color: let’s talk about tennis, and how funny it is, and other stuff about it.

Up until yesterday afternoon, I had never attended a match, because… Well, you know my feelings about sports now. But I’m a great friend, regardless of those feelings. So I went with my friend who had to go. I went, I sweat, and I heard some of the most barbaric, interesting, disturbing noises in the entire world.

Most of them were the things I don’t even hear in bed, but I imagine those weird kinky couples do.

Here is my best attempt at spelling one such exclamation from my favorite player.

“Hhhhheeeeeeeuuhhhhhhhhhaaaahhhhh!”

Every time this guy hit the ball. Every. Single. Time. Back and forth, and back and forth. Over and over he made this terrifying, passionate, grunting sound.

Now don’t get me wrong, it was disturbing and pretty irritating after a while. But at the same time, there was something oddly interesting about it.

Personally I love when men (really anyone for that matter, but it’s especially attractive in the opposite sex) display their passion, whatever it may be, without any inhibitions. It’s beautiful, not to mention fascinating, to watch, no matter how strange it might be.

Yes even, “Hhhhheeeeeeeuuhhhhhhhhhaaaahhhhh!” exclaimed with gusto, makes me giddy inside.

It didn’t hurt that he was one beautiful chunk of tennis playing man meat, either.

Basically, his display of aggression and passion and all that jazz, made me think of sex. Combined with the noises, I came to the conclusion that he was just sexing that tennis court up and down. And I loved it.

I mean, not that much. Because soon I got really hot, and could see the start of a weird fucking tan line on my shoulders (which I wasn’t able to prevent, unfortunately). So we left. But it was really fun while it lasted. Well, not that fun. But Mr. Caveman Tennis Guy was nice to observe.

So, take notes, people! Grunt your battle cry with conviction! Even if it is football or some sport that I find pointless; do what you do. Just don’t make me watch unless you’re sexing a tennis court, or something equally thrilling.

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Psychobabble

I’d like to make a proposition:

Let’s all take a look at ourselves in the mirror today.

Let’s think about all the things about us that others perceive to be strange, or odd, or unusual.

Make a list.

Look at that list, and think about the things on there you wish you could show off and say, “Fuck anyone who doesn’t like it.”

What things do you love about yourself? What makes you who you are?

Now get creative with it. Write it, paint it, draw it, photograph it, record it, run with it, say it, think it, be it. Turn it into something tangible.

Turn yourself and your thoughts into whatever form it wants to take.

Then look at it hard. Look at it, all those things you are and that you love about yourself all spilled onto a wall or a canvas, a piece of paper,  a video on YouTube.

And then tell me who has the right to tell you it’s wrong. How anyone can look into that one-of-a-kind mind, and say that it’s strange and unacceptable.

Recently, I’ve been working on something like that. When it’s done, I’m going to put it out there, however it turns out, and let it be. And whoever wants to say anything about it, can suck my dick.

Now, my apologies for the sap and mushy gushy shit. But lately I’ve been witnessing a hell of a lot of judgment, bullying, ridicule, and down-right awful treatment of people.

Yeah, looking back at some of my previous posts, I’ve talked a lot of shit, and it probably seems hypocritical to say anything on this topic. But those are stories as they take place in a part of my head that are based on experience, but absorb a part of me that is frankly, a bitch, and thinks she is always right. It’s for entertainment and for making fun of shit that happens in everyday life. I believe in making fun of yourself, and finding the humor wherever you can.

But for the moment, I’m talking about how it really is, and how people need to start acting. Above all, I think people need to mind their OWN FUCKING BUSINESS. Given that someone isn’t hurting anyone (including themselves), and they’re happy, stop wasting your own time fucking with someone else.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go watch Fried Green Tomatoes, and drink a bottle of Chardonnay. By myself. JUDGE ME.

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Born What Way?

In the immortal words of the revered Mother Monster, I was born this way.

 

 

 

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No Life.

So what do you do instead?

 

Join the after life.

If you didn’t gather how insane I was before, well. Yeah.

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“I’m a Republican, so They Can’t Throw Me in Jail!”

My drunken, rage-induced battle cry while passing through security on my was to Las Vegas. Or as I like to call it, the Motherland. These morally bankrupt ladies and gents are my people, and I’ve only ever come back to visit once since I was snatched soon after birth.

But I’d like to talk about a much more corrupt breed of human. I’m talking, of course, about TSA.

Pushy, pedophile, bored, below the poverty-line, sassypants, power-tripping humans. And I use the term “human” loosely, because I’m not entirely convinced that in order to be a TSA agent, that you don’t first have to sell at least 3/4 of your soul and sacrifice three puppies to Satan.

Or maybe it’s one of those secret societies within a society, because I’ve run into some very helpful employees at the airport. Rare, but not impossible. It’s either that, or a select few are required to learn the stringent practice of caging their inner evil while assisting the humans pass through bomb checkpoints. I have to believe this is a discipline calling for only the most skilled masters at hiding their fragmented, empty souls. These are usually the old geezers, because obviously the young guns haven’t experienced enough holiday weekends.

Either way, I didn’t encounter any old, experienced agents on Monday.

Given, I’m drunk at this point. And it is awesome. But unapparent intoxication (or maybe it was apparent…who cares?) is no excuse to be rude to an innocent, not to mention pretty, young girl. Especially if she is a Republican.

Sure it’s a little foggy, the whole going through security thing. But I KNOW I didn’t start it. It went a little something like this (give or take a few swear words and nasty looks):

*Metal detector sounds*

TSA: MA’AM ARE YOU WEARING A BELT?! (think angry and entitled due to place below the poverty line)

ME: *points to belt* (I’m too pretty to speak. Or too drunk. Either way I’m not speaking to you)

TSA: I CAN’T SEE YOU MA’AM!!!!!!! (Replace those ugly bifocals, then)

ME: Is there a reason you’re yelling at me?

TSA: *gives me a look that says “I’M TSA.”*

ME: *gives her a look that says “I pay your bills”*

TSA: WE CAN ARRANGE A FULL BODY SEARCH IF YOU’D LIKE!!!!!!

ME: I can arrange a court date for your sexual harassment trial if you’d like.

TSA: *clearly defeated* Step on the painted feet, hands above your head.

Travel Companions: They can put you in jail, you know.

ME (to travel companions): I’M A REPUBLICAN, THEY CAN’T THROW ME IN JAIL!

Yeah, once I somehow, through my hazy drunken stupor, came to realize how they were treating me, I made damn sure to be the kidney stone that TSA was doomed to pass. Agonizing, tiny, and will probably be back.

Take that, TSA. Take that, and store it in your anal cavity, so that next time you go through security, they can dig around and it find it all over again.

This clusterfuck might have been avoided, had TSA been more concerned with airport security, rather than harassing young Republican females who are just trying to get to Vegas.

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