So I’m on my couch in the middle of the day on a Friday. Fridays are my day off. I had slept in, ate cereal, walked the dog, played my guitar (if you can call it that), wrote a bunch and did all that stuff you do on your day off. I may have thrown away an old carton of milk and thought about going to Trader Joe’s for more. Wait, did I throw it away? Or no… ?

Meanwhile, people are getting blown to Smithereens while they’re having a lovely dinner in Paris. People are watching terrorists blow people’s heads off. A girl is hanging outside a second story window so the gunmen can’t see her and kill her. And the whole world freaks out because who the fuck knows what will be next, and where.

I have no idea what the fuck is going on in the world. Does no one remember the 60’s? We could all be listening to Jefferson Starship and making love all day in Golden Gate Park. We could live in peace and not have to lock our doors or worry about getting raped. Thanks a lot, idiots. I guess we’ll never really know, but I have zero insight into what might possibly go on in the mind of a suicide bomber (who, by definition, is dead). Or how their mothers must feel. Yeah, they have mothers, and fathers, and probably siblings but probably not wives or kids. I’m guessing it would be harder to convince someone to kill themself in a highjacking situation or a siege of terror if they’re thinking about little Snookie’s new word he just learned.

After watching CNN for about 10 hours I start writing a piece for elepant journal, but it doesn’t turn out. It was gong to be called “It’s So Easy to Laugh, It’s So Easy to Hate, It Takes Strength to be Gentle & Kind” (from the Smiths’ song “I Know it’s Over,” in case you were wondering). I was thinking about how we go straight to anger when shit like this happens. Like this: burn in hell, terrorists. I hope you spend eternity strapped to a bed of acid-filled syringes. I hope 1,000 hornets and tarantulas are having a feeding frenzy on your sickening souls right now. I hope… OK, you get it. That’s as far as I got.

This kind of thing does no good. Be gentle and kind. Stop complaining about red Starbucks’ cups and your stupid job and Donald Trump (even if he is a horse’s ass). Do something sweet for someone. Call your mother. Don’t be such a selfish prick. Meet me at yoga ♥♥♥

Written by Anne Clendening
Anne Clendening was born and raised in L.A. She's a yoga teacher, a writer and occasionally slings cocktails in a Hollywood bar. She could eat chocolate cake for every meal of the day. She has a huge fear of heights and flying. And fire. She wishes she could speak French, play her guitar better and make cannoli. She's probably listening to The Dark Side Of The Moon right now, kickin’ it with her boxer dog and her hot Australian husband ★