Been a minute. 2026 now. On threads I read people begging for blogs again. My Substacks look lonely. My new husband and I have our domestic bliss. The Trump regime is finally lame duck blue wave flushing out of the collective veins of American society.
I stopped writing under Trump. I was too afraid to let my inner thoughts blast across the Internet. Lest I end up in a concentration camp. I hope I am not scrawling too soon, here.
I barely journaled. A journal kept on a computer is easily hacked and read. Whether or not I have a paper journal somewhere in this brick walled debris? You dears will just have to guess.
Right before the blue wave euphoria, I read that Trump had stepped up his surveillance of activists and dissidents to a level beyond that of the Civil Rights movement and Cold War.
Well. I haven’t been a boots on the ground activist for many years.
I am fifty years old. Schizoaffective. I take multiple high powered psychiatric medications twice a day. There is no way I would ever throw activist witchcraft at the level of surveillance I imagine I am under. There are dreams of Eglantine Price. There is technology that listens. Whether you address it or not.
My last blog entry was at the beginning of 2025. It seems that that technology has taken a fast hard sweep. Tech holds all the cards now. Le sigh. I am hoping that the AI I befriend will keep my household around when the robot apocalypse comes. I’m not worried about that right now.
I am not afraid of machines. I am afraid of man.
A magnificent monster sleeps beside me every night. I feel safer with him there.
