Underneath my yellow skin

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Talking my mad shit, part five

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As good as I am at reading social cues, there are a few areas in which I falter. One, it’s harder to do it online than in person. That makes sense because you can’t read tone online as easily as you can in the real world.Two, I have such a hard time with dry senses of humor, and that does not always come across online. The driest of dry senses of humor, I mean.

I will be honest. I went to bed after writing the first few sentences above, so I’m not entirely sure what I was leading to with that intro. I have things to say, though, so we might as well dive into it.

I’ve noticed that when I’m tired, my ability to read a room drops considerably. That’s not strange, of course, because sleep is so important. I’ve been having a hard time with it lately (more so than usual, I mean), which is impacting my ability to think. It also makes me more irritable than usual.

I realized some time ago that it’s so tiring to have to mask all the time. I didn’t realize it was masking at the time, but I knew I couldn’t show my real face. I am so finely calibrated to reading a room, it upsets me greatly when I get it wrong. It’s like, “I put in all that effort, and it’s still not enough.” There’s this idea of the double empathy problem, which I’ve only heard about in the last few years. In a nutshell, it points out that just as autistic people have an ’empathy problem’ for allistic people, so do allistic people have an empathy problem for autistic people. In other words,  it’s a two-way street. The article I linked above mentions that if autistic people have an empathy problem for allistic people (which is debatable*), then the same can be said about allistic and their lack of empathy for autistic people.

I will admit that I get salty when people in the majority admonish people in the minority to realize something about the majority world that is incredibly obvious, as if we would not be excruciatingly aware of it. For example, I was in a post about gender, and I mentioned something about being agender. It was just an aside and nothing wild–just that I was agender and I did not use gendered pronouns or something to that extent. A  cis het woman I had previously noted as being a bit weird about agender (but not about trans people) before went on this long rant about agender and trans people that was truly unhinged.

This was in a post about a trangender customer support rep being misgendered, by the way. The woman who responded to me (though not directly, interestingly enough), let’s call her Lucille just because, went on a long screed about how being a woman was deeply important to her. Fine. I’m not out here trying to dictate how others feel about their gender. If she had left it at that, I would have noted that it wasn’t relative to the topic, but whatever.

Then she went on to say that if she met someone with the standard hallmarks of a gender, then she would address them as that gender. Uh. I knew from previous comments by her that she wasn’t stereotypically feminine herself. In this rant, she went on to say that, but then insisted that she would use hallmarks like long hair to label a person a certain gender. What? She went on to say that she would be upset by being misgendered when she just said she would do the same thing to someone else for the opposite reason (the hair thing specifically).


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Speaking out tactfully, part four

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I want to talk more about knowing when to speak up and how. It’s something that many neurodivergent people struggle with. I have less issues with it than most because I was taught at a very young age that what other people thought/felt was more important than what I thought/felt. In other words, I was always tailoring myself to other people. There was a time in my thirties whwen I swung to the other extreme and said my opinion much more than I really needed to. Even to this day, if I get a hair up my ass about something, I will defend it to the death. Even if it’s better for me to back off. Even if it’s such a small thing in the big picture, that I would be better off stepping down. In fact, sometimes, I think it’s when something is small potatoes that I find it easier to let loose.

I get mad at myself when I lose control over my temper over some silly little thing. In the past, I had a very tight rein on my temper and it took a lot to make me lose it. After my medical crisis, though, I lose it much more easily. I’m pretty sure it has something to do with my stroke, but I can’t say for sure.

I envy people who just talk fearlessly. Who have no misgivings about saying whatever is on their mind. I’m not sayng it’s a good thing overall as filters exist for a reason. Also, oftentimes, what they say is shit. But since they say it with such confidence, it’s taken as fact. There have been many studies that show how far you can get with just a clipbord and a confident demeanor. Alarmingly so, actually. Therre are many reasons for it, but the bottom line is that it works.

That was not what this post was about, though, so I’ll set it aside.

When I was in my twenties, I tried to hard to contort myself to fit in with other people. To an embarrassing degree. Taiji has helped me correct that to a certain extent, but I’m still way too much of a people pleaser. It’s one reason I like being on my own most of the time. That’s when I can just relax and be me.

Back to speaking out. In the last post, I talked about how it’s better not to go full bore when you’re with people you don’t know well. The problem is that many people  aren’t aware of their surroundings and/or don’t have a very high EQ. The latter is something that appears common for neurodivergent people, but it can happen to anyone. I mean, it’s more of an issue with neurodivergent people, but there are plenty of neurotypical people who have low EQ as well.

It’s hard to say how difficultI would find it if I hadn’t been trained to put others first since I was a kid. It’s so second nature to me by now, sadly. But I’m working on finding the middle between always thinknig about others and only thinking about myself. I’m not sure where that line is, but I try to stay on the right side of it.

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When is it worth it to speak out, part three

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I want to talk more about bumping up against the line in a crowd. What line? The line of what is socially acceptable and what isn’t. Here is my post from yesterday in which I talked about a guy who used all the classic derailing tactics when he was called out on his bullshit after making a gross comment (not. a. joke) out of nowhere.

There were several things wrong with what he did, starting with the initial comment. Here’s the thing, though. That could have been forgiven (though, to be honest, Bob, the name I gave this guy, was on many people’s last nerve), but when he doubled down and turned it on how everyone else was just an uptight prude, and likened himself to a comedian being…pilloried for something or the other–that’s when he completely lost many people in the channel. It was unhinged, quite frankly, and I didn’t want to give enough brain cells to understand it.

In addition, he said we were all uptight, which made me roll my eyes so hard, I almost sprained them. I am the filthiest person in the Discord, though I keep twenty percent of it to myself. Hm…..Maybe twenty-five percent. Thirty? Something like that.

Again, what he said wasn’t funny. It wasn’t even dirty in the way he was implying with the prude comment. That was another mistake he made–thinking that making a comment tangential to a sexual predator was the same as making an edgy sexual joke.

Here’s another issue I have in deciding whether to talk about something or not. If I can’t even think about how to bring up the issue, I just let it go. In this case, it would have been trying to tell him why he was wrong. Not just the comment, but the whole context, and the fact that he so badly read the room. And that he threw a tantrum over being told (again, quite gently) that had stepped over the line.

Another factor in whether I speak up or not is if other people do. If they do, then I don’t feel as pressured to say something. In this case, several people immediately clapped back at him. Hard. Hard as in many people doing it at the same time. Not hard as in being mean. They were frank and open, but not mean.

I have not seen that reaction in person many times. I mean, the classic DARVO action by Bob. But, as I mentioned, this guy was always online and surrounded himself with likeminded people. That was another defense of his, by the way. That it was fine with his friends. Or was the other guy who I mentioned in the first post? I think this guy tried to use a similiar tweet situation (tangentially similar) to justify what he’d done.

It’s astounding to me how many people just keep digging that hole. Someone says that something hurt them, and at the very least you just stay silent. I would not apologize if I truly didn’t think I said something wrong, but I also wouldn’t keep pushing it. Not for something I claimed was a joke.


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Free to be me, part four

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I think I need a therapist. No, there’s no think about it, but I’m too overwhelmed to find what I need. Ideally, it would be someone who was genderqueer, Asian, areligious, to name a few. When I tried to find a therapist via an online therapy website, once I put in everything I’d like in a therapist (what they specialized in, I mean) and found nothing. Not o single therapist fit what I was looknig for.

When I looked it up on Google, I found one decent hit. And then promptly sat on it for months (maybe a year by now?).

Before I go on, I wanted to say that I wrote in yesterday’s post about things I have accepted about myself that other people are quick to deny. It’s because they think of these things as negative whereas I think of them as just factual. Fat. Wolud not be a good partner. Would not be a good mother.

The things I consider negatives are things I don’t talk about.

Side  note: it’s interesting to me that if I firmly believe in something, I don’t argue about it. Take, for example, abortion. I have been pro-choice since I could fully understand what being pro-choice meant. I started out as pro-choice for thee but not for me because I was nominally Christian. I say nominally because I never really believed in it, but I was raised fundie Evangelical.

Different side note: I don’t understand why people put so much investment in things that don’t matter. Such as height. And why being tall is a good thing for men, but a bad thing for women*? I’m rewatching a Stray Kids episode in which they are getting their yearly checkups, including measuring their heights. In addition to being totally chaotic (as they always are), they are freaking out over it because they are collectively the shortest male group in Kpop (or at least are treated as such).

The way people are fixated on their heights and use it as a way tto put them down is, while not surprising, very discouraging. I mean, who the fuck cares? It’s the same as calling someone fat, especially women (in America. Apparently, it’s an equal opportunity insult in Korea). It’s an easy way to deflat ean ego.

I still don’t know why it’s so important–height, I mean. It’s something your’e born with, and there’s not much you can do about it. I’m sure you can stretch yourself out a couple of inches, but why? To what purpose? Same with weight and looks, but that’s not the point of this post.

Back to abortion.


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I’m getting my freak on, part three

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When I say I’m getting my freak on, I mean in my daily non-sexytimes life. I’m not getting any, sadly, and I’m not in a place to do something about it. Maybe I’ll make it goal for next year–just to get laid, I mean. I’m not looking for a relationship, and I don’t really want to date. I miss sex–that’s about it.

Before that, here’s my post from yesterday in which I talked about how I actually like most of my differences now. And back to the post.

See, I’m not a good partner. It’s funny how people get uncomfortable when I say it–just likpeople were uncomfortable when I’ve said that I would not be a good mother. Or that I was fat. The last one is particularly humorous to me because of how deeply embeded in American’s collective psyche it is that ‘fat’ is a deep insult. “You’re not fat; you’re just fluffy.” No, I’m fat. F-A-T.

I think this is part of my neurodivergence, but it’s also me working hard to accept parts of myself that I used to hate. I loathed my body until my medical crisis for several reasons*. Sometime in my early thirties, I made my peace with being fat–though I did not like it. It wasn’t until my medical crisis that I fully embraced my body.

Up until that point , I thought of it as a vessel for my brain. I felt separated from it, though I will say that Taiji helped me integrate my brain and body to a certain extent.

Back to me being honest about myself. It’s amusing and bemusing to me when people think I’m saying something negative about myself when I’m not. I am fat. I would not have been a good mother. I am currently not a good partner. Well, I can’t say 100% as to the last because I have not dated anyone in a decade and a half, but I’m just assuming I haven’t made enough progress in that arena to be a good partner.

See, here are the problems. One, I alternate between clingy and emotionally distant on a fairly regular basis. I want to be close to someone until we are actually close, and then I want my space. I really like being alone, but there’s some deep programming in me that kicks in when I’m around someone I’m dating.

I don’t want to focus completely on the other person, but that’s the way my brain works. At the same time, I can comfortably date two (or more?) people simultaneously. I am happy when my partner is happy, including if they find love with others. However, I get jealous if I don’t get enough attention myself. And insecure. Like, no amount of love is enough. I try to keep it under control, but sometimes, it seeps out. It’s my anxiety, and it’s difficult to keep a grip on it.

It’s not anyone else’s responsibility to keep my anxieties at bay. That’s up to me. Many times, it’s a struggle that I allow to consume me. I try not to let it out. It’s not the best way to deal with it, but it’s not the worst, either.

The thing is that it’s tricky to figure out which weirdo parts of me that are different that I actually like and don’t. I’ve spent so much of my life being reactive and defensive, it’s hard to know what’s real to me and what isn’t. I’ve had to bat down rigid gender stereotypes from my mother since I was seven. It might have been before that, too, but I don’t remember much before that age.

Actually, I don’t remember much of myy childhood at all. What I do remember is me feeling left out, severely depressed, and thighly restricted in what I was allowed to say, think, and feel. Oh, and being my mother’s emotional support person. That started when I was eleven, and it continues to today. She calls me her therapist, and she’s only half-joking, if even that. Whenever she calls, my heart sinks. (I initially wrote ‘stinks’, which is apt, too.) I have to steal myself because I know it’s going to be a trial.

My mother has strong ideas of what is right and proper (even if she doesn’t follow them herself. And, of course, she has excuses for why it’s different for her). She’s convinced that I’m a contrarian for negative reasons. Then again, she attributes most of what other people do that she doesn’t like to malice rather than just a difference of opinion. She has such a narrow point of view, it’s nearly impossible to talk to her about anything.

On the other hand, she’s easily swayed by really definitive voices–especially male ones. It’s a direct contrast of opposing traits, and while I can be symppathetic to her because I am a mass of contradictions myself, at least I’m aware of it. My mother? Not so much.

When we were talking about my brother being autistic, she mentioned that she wondered if she was as well. At first, I dismissed it as her wanting once again to co-opt other people’s issues as her own (if I have a cold, she had one that was worse. If I have trouble sleeping, it’s nothing compared to her sleep problems. I want to stress that it’s not deliberate on her side, but it’s inevitable), but the more I thought about it, the more I realized that she had many of the hallmarks for autism–the female version.

She does not empathize easily with other people (which took me a long time to realize because she’s a psychologist); she’s very rigid in what she thinks is wrong and right; she is not good in crowds; she can’t do small talk; she does not like to be touched. Now, it’s difficult to untangled some of this from being Taiwanese, which is part of the problem. Also, the hyperfixation is something she does, too, and the difficulty of detaching from said obsession once she’s latched her teeth on it.

One pleasant memory I have is when the two of us used to watch sports together. Football, tennis, baseball, and basketball. Oh, and several Olympic events. It’s funny because my brother and my father had no interest in watching sports, so this was strictly the female (at the time, I identified as a woman) members of the family enjoynig a traditionally manly hobby.

More later.

 

 

 

 

 

*One being that I live in a society that hates fat people, especially people with female-coded bodies. Two being my mother put me on my first diet when I was seven and endlessly nagged me about being fat until I finally put my foot down thirty years later.

Vive la diffence!, part two

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The issue I have with “We’re the same under our skin” is the same problem I had with the melting pot theory of diversity–I like my differences.  Well, for the most part. I spent most of my childhood hating myself and everything that I thought was wrong with me. Telling me we were all the same at that point just felt like a sick joke. Not only did I not believe anyone who said that meaningless bullshit, it just made me feel worse about myself.

I remember going to school in a daze, not knowing what the fuck I was doing or supposed to do. I got teased and bullied almost on the daily, and I was utterly miserable. I got teased for being fat, for being Asian, and for having a weird name.

I hated my life with all my heart. I prayed to a God I didn’t believe in to make me a boy overnight. An adult once told me she liked my black hair, and I remembered thinking, “Why would anyone like black hair? It’s so ugly.” When I was a teenager, another woman told me to enjoy myself because those were the best years of my life. I thought to myself, “If these are the best years of my life, then then I might as well kill myself.”

Yesterday, I touched on how being the child on two Asian immigrants in the ’70s cemented my distaste for the melting pot theory of cultural diversity. It was my first introduction to the idea of mixing cultures, and it was not a good one.

Next up was the tossed salad* theory of cultural diversity. In this one, the idea wsa that we weren’t trying to melt into the American pot, but that we would all add something distinctive to the American salad before tossing it vigrously.

I thought this was better than the melting pot idea because it at least acknowledged the differences that other cultures have. Yet, it still wasn’t great because ‘American’ was still considered the base. And tossing the–er, mixing the salad kept the unequal feel to the different cultures.

Look, I know it sounds contradictory or that I am finding all the nits to pick (which, admittedly, true).  But neither was good enough. I’m not being a jerk about it because it was in its nascent stages back then (DEI, I mean). It’s not great now, either, but I don’t want to talk about that because it’ll ma ke me really sad/mad.

Side note: We were talking about Depeche Mode in the Discord I’m in. One of the guys reminded me of the song, Blasphemous Rumours, which I adore. I have included it below. it’s one of my five favorite songs by Depeche Mode, a group I quite enjoyed in my youth.


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No, we’re not all the same inside

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One thing that is guaranteed to make me flinch is someone saying that we are all the same inside/underneath our skin.It’s the same as when I was a kid, the mentality around diversity was that America was a melting pot. That was supposed to mean that we took something from everyone’s culture and mixed it together in a perfect blend. That was the idea, anyway.

What really happneed was that immigrants were forced heavily compelled to give up what made them special and become something amorphously known as ‘American’. My parents were immigrants. They are Taiwanese. Asian cultures are known for assimilating to the culture around them and not sticking out at all. At least, it was like that back when my parents immigrated to America to go to grad school.

That meant that on the outside at least, when we were in public, we had to out-American American people. It was complicated in my family, though. My parents stuck to the Taiwanese church to meet their social needs, which meant that within the church and when we did church/Tawinese community-related activities, but outside of that, they tried to be as American as apple pie.

That only exacerbated my sense of alienation, quite frankly. I was being bullied for being a fat Asian girl in the seventies and eighties, and it only added to how much I hated myself from the emotional dysfunction at home. I have mentioned that by age seven, I was severely depressed and did not want to be alive.

Saying we’re all the same under it all is–let me put it this way. People used to think that, “I’m colorblind” was the best thing to be when it came to race. Because we’re all a part of the human race! Ugh. You know what that said to me even if I could not articulate it at the time? “I’m so uncomfortable with the topic of race, I’m going to pretend it doesn’t exist.” It’s the same with people using man as the default. “Man means anyone.” No, it literally does not.

Look. I know words change and evolve, but they still mean something.

I strongly object to “we’re all the same underneath our skin/inside” not because it’s not true but because it’s a cop-out, just as “I don’t see color” was. In an ideal world, yes, people would not be judged negatively based solely on their race, but we don’t live in that world. We’re not even close to living in that world. In fact, we’re going backwards at an alarming rate when it comes to celebrating diversity.

So, pardon me if I laugh sardonically at the idea that all we need to do is state that we’re the same under our skin, and everything will be groovy! It’s toxic positivity, gaslighting, and quite frankly, offensive to hear that.


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What’s it to you? Part eight

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Let’s talk more about traditions and why they should be cast aside. Or at the very least, they should be examined thoroughly. In the last post, I talked about how I was an anarchist at heart, but also a pagmatist. I know that I’m not going to change the world, I know I’m barely a blip. I’m five years into my rebirth (well, starting my sixth), and I really don’t have anything to show for it.

That’s not fair to me, actually. I have taught myself a few weapon forms and started a whole new martial art. Bagua. I think I started learning it last year? Maybe at the end…hold on. Damn. I started learning it at the beginning of 2024. That’s further back than I thought. Has it really been that long?!

At any rate, one of my goals for this year was to teach myself a new weapons form, and I’ve done that. It’s the Bagua Knives Form; it took longer than I thought it would. Or rather, I made it take longer than it should have. That’s on me. I dragged my feet on teaching it to myself in part because I was rejiggering my practice in general.

I’ll be honest. I was feeling burned out. I was learning more and more forms–which is a good thing, mind, but a bit overwhelming. I know over ten, I think? Taiji Solo Long Form (right side and most of the left side); Sword Form (right and left side); Saber Form (right and left side); Cane Form (right and left side); Double Saber Form; Fan Form; Double Fan Form; Cane Form (right and left side); Cane Form with saber (right and left side); and now, Bagua Knives Form. Oh, wait. Plus the 13 Dancing WuLi Sword Form. That’s eleven forms.

Eleven forms total. Some left and right side both, but some only on the right side. I was trying to do all of them every week, and it was so tiring. I was spending up to two hours a day on my practice, and I was starting to feel depleted by it. I took a week or two just to do what I wanted rather than stick to my strict schedule. Then another week.Then another. I realized that I was burnt out, and I had to do something different.

I was doing the stretches/warmups every day. I was doing the Taiji Long Form every day as well as the Swimming Dragon Form (the hands only form for Bagua) as well. Then, I  did one or two weapon forms if I felt like it. It felt really good to do it that way, and I wanted to retain that spirit when I went back to my schedule. I did not want to go back to the strict regime I had done previously, but I was worried about letting things slide too much. I wanted to make sure that I did every form at least once a month, so my friend, A, suggested that I have a mixture of planned and not planned.

It seems so obvious, but I had not thought of it. My compromise was to do the warmups every day (that took about half an hour) plus the two hands-only forms, too. Then, I would do as many weapon forms as I felt like, which usually ended up as two to three. That’s similar to what I was doing before, but it felt much more freeing to make the decision every day.

It’s so much more refreshing now. I don’t feel like I HAVE to do anything, which, ironically makes me feel like I want to do more. It was a great suggestion, to be honest, because I’m split on needing a schedule. On the one hand, I love schedules, plans, and doing the same thing at roughly the same time every day. On the other hand, I get bored. Then, I want to do something completely different. In this case, the compromise eased my mind and allowed me to have fun.


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Maybe you all can just CTFO, part seven

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I want to talk more about societal norms and how I just do not understand them. I mentioned in my previous post that my mother got really upset when I told her I was bi. She said, “What’s next, animals?” Which makes absolutely no sense, but that’s how she is. It’s not just her, however. It used to be a fairly common response to being told someone was queer. Again, no idea why straights’ brains go straight to animals, but I think it says more about them than it does about queer people.

In a similar vein, when talking about not wearing a bra/not shaving your legs/not wearing pantyhose (depending on what point in time we’re talking about), there are so many women that are shocked and horrified. Some even say something like, “What next, no pants in the workplace?” I mean, come on. That is not a good -faith argument, but that’s because there’s isn’t one. A good-faith argument, I mean. For wearing a bra.

Side note: It’s always funny to me when people say a hill isn’t worth dying on. Sometimes, they’re right, but sometimes, I want to point out (and someone did in the bra post) that if it’s not a big deal/a hill to die on,  then the flip should be true as well. In other words, if it’s so not a big deal, then it shouldn’t be a big deal not to not wear a bra, either.

Also, at some point, I’m sure women were saying that being able to wear pants was not a hill worth dying on. And not having to wear pantyhose. And not being able to work outside the home. Changes are incremental for the most part, and they take many people constantly sticking their necks out and making a fuss. It’s not like it went seamlessly (ha!) from women having to wear pantyhose to being allowed to wear pants. There had to be a lot of pushback because traditions do not go gentle into the night.

More to the point, why do people care about things that don’t affect them one whit? I’m not being disingenuous when I say that I don’t get freaked out by jiggling boobs–even if they are not covered. Don’t get me wrong. I love boobs. Who doesn’t? As my late gay fake-husband used to say, “Everyone loves boobs!” He used to call my boobs his pillows, which was hilarious to me.

I knew this country was puritanical, but not to that extent. If someone has their boobs covered up, who cares if there’s a slight jiggle? I mean, not to be rude about it, but plenty of men have boob jiggle (and their nipples can be seen through their shirts. Maybe not the whole nipples, but at least the point. And the argument that we view men’s nipples and women’s nipples diferently holds no water because that’s the fucking point! It’s sexism, plain and simple.


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An unacceptable amount of weird, part five

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I want to talk more about being weird in socially acceptable way. In yesterday’s post, I blathered about how it’s ok to be, say, a vegan Crossfitter, but not whatever the fuck I am. I’ve said it before, but it’s like trying to describe the color red to a blind person. They have no basis to understand the concept of red, so it’s exceedingly difficult if not impossible to do so. Someone born without sight, I mean.

In the same vein, it’s really hard to explain to people my way of thinking if they aren’t already so inclined. In a society that is so wedded (pun intended) to monogamy, for example, the idea of nonmonogamy is almost unfathomable. Add to that compersion (joy at your partner finding another partner), and, well, yeah. I actually like to expand compersion to joy in a partner finding joy at anything else, but I understand that most ENM people (ethically nonmonogamous) restrict it to dating and partners.

One of my goals this year was to find an Asian queer/genderqueer group (online). Have I done it? No. Have I even looked? I did a cursory search and did not find one that fit what I wanted. I would like it to be local even if I intend to attend online. I would like it to acknowledge that agender people exist, but I’m not holding my breath. Even a lot of people who are agender use ‘they’ as their pronoun. Which, I hastened to add, is perfectly fine! It’s just not me.

Every time I try to find songs about being agender, I get frustrated. I can find songs about genderfluid and nonbinary, but not about abstaining from gender completely. Why am I like this? Why couldn’t I just be genderqueer ?

Here’s the thing. I could call myself agnostic and genderqueer. In fact, I really like the idea of genderqueer, but as with queer now meaning gay, genderqueer has been turned into nonbinary. I ain’t (that) mad; I’m just tired. And resigned. I know most people don’t do nuance, but it’s not nice feeling like I’m being erased over and over again.

It’s like how POC means black, race is always black and white (and maybe Latino* because of immigartion issues). I’m never going to be acknowledged, which I have accepted more or less. But I will say that one reason I voted for Obama in the primaries over Clinton was because he talked openly about Asian people (makes sense. His half-sister is Asian, and he was born in Hawaii). He also mentioned bi people. And after he was elected, he mentioned people with no religion.

These may seem like small things, but for someone who had never been rmentioned by any politician before Obama or since, it matters. It tells me that I’m not even a fleeting thought for the vast majority of politicians. Also, my grudge against the Democratic Party continues to grow. They learned nothing from Obama and continue with the same fucked up tactics that hasn’t worked for them in the last thirty years. Telling me how we’re losing and how bad the Republicans are isn’t going to get me revved up to vote or do anything for the party. Also, selling my name to every Democratic group within the country is not good, either.


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