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My Confession
tough to admit . . .
Sneering Stephen Miller, father of mass deportation and advisor to the vilest racist leanings in the White House, has a peculiar neck tic.
Any normal person viewing his frequent airing of grievances on Fox Fantasies will notice his tic right off. The more Miller winds himself up into a life-or-death threatening racist rant, the more one imagines an invisible noose tightening around his pathetic neck.
Clearly that ever-present noose chafes him.
So, here’s my confession.
In my twenties and thirties, I was so tightly-wound, I would often pluck at the guitar-string tension in my neck that very same way. I cannot watch this man wrenching his own neck for very long before a venomous squirt of regret injects my bodily fluids.
Sitting in my wheelchair, unable to live life in ways I used to . . . my neck finally failed catastrophically from decades of infernal bone-grinding, I guess . . . and it’s hard not to wish I’d chilled out about fifty years ago rather than just in this past year.
Sigh. So much about this regime tortures me.
