When I was a small child, back in the days when hippies roamed the earth, there was a poster above my bed with the words:
Apparently I internalized that message, because my immediate gut response to Trump launching “the mother of all bombs” into Syria was along the lines of “Oh, crap. I don’t want to die.” I do not want to die in WWIII, and I especially don’t want it to happen soon. I do not appreciate that blowhard who wormed his way into the White House trying to prove his manhood by playing chicken with Syria and its Russian supporters, or conversely with North Korea and its China supporters. People get hurt playing chicken (just ask my spouse, who spent half of his fourth grade year in a full-leg cast). The bigger the scale you’re playing on, the more people who are likely to get hurt.
(Yes, we just had a visit from my whole family; it was very nice and I need to write about that, but I had to get this off my fingertips first.)
Mirrored from Dichroic Reflections.