Apocalypse at the homeschool co-op
︎︎︎ Bauhausfrau
︎ Feb 18, 2026
Nuclear war is what haunts us today. So retro, what a treat. Candace Owens is saying things. Or maybe it was Tucker. The laundry detergent message: is Facebook real. And what is to be done?
Although he may be moldy that St. Michael watches now. We have already what we could control here anyhow.
So soothes our Russian import as she shares postcoldwar eyes. She's right, you know, game theoretically. Scratch that: nukes are fake. Oh crap, where are the kids.
Thrust through the oaky firmament, Parish Council Susan smolders. An uncivil ordeal: scholars square off round a forgotten concrete grill in the Dominican style. His treasures spit cross Larry’s cooled deathbed at each other in today's obnoxious sex battle. Wargame is hell for moms.
A leader decides it's high time we banned it, thank God. Back to pregnant again COVID clean beauty weather machine don't like how Erika looks at us Red Cross report no not flat earth that's dumb but they totally would if they could.
I used to have the dreams too, Crystal City sparkling, I saw the cloud and looked at him, serene, so I smiled knowing we'd soon do it again and in a flash I was right. Want to live together forever? Come to the other window of Providence.
Their signs interrupt that WE WANT WAR! Join the club kid. Girls doth counterprotest enough to force the cause. My charred martyr, so exhausted.
Longbeards above strangle Sue before she stuffs our hefted diapers in an expecting New American’s hatchback. Of course it is the children's fault.
As if you didn't choose to scream across the sky yourself way back. Our lot is to sleepwalk backwards into dominioned futures, covered, our ladies’ clueless Edens thriving on the margins we push. Get in the vans, kids.
Although he may be moldy that St. Michael watches now. We have already what we could control here anyhow.
So soothes our Russian import as she shares postcoldwar eyes. She's right, you know, game theoretically. Scratch that: nukes are fake. Oh crap, where are the kids.
Thrust through the oaky firmament, Parish Council Susan smolders. An uncivil ordeal: scholars square off round a forgotten concrete grill in the Dominican style. His treasures spit cross Larry’s cooled deathbed at each other in today's obnoxious sex battle. Wargame is hell for moms.
A leader decides it's high time we banned it, thank God. Back to pregnant again COVID clean beauty weather machine don't like how Erika looks at us Red Cross report no not flat earth that's dumb but they totally would if they could.
I used to have the dreams too, Crystal City sparkling, I saw the cloud and looked at him, serene, so I smiled knowing we'd soon do it again and in a flash I was right. Want to live together forever? Come to the other window of Providence.
Their signs interrupt that WE WANT WAR! Join the club kid. Girls doth counterprotest enough to force the cause. My charred martyr, so exhausted.
Longbeards above strangle Sue before she stuffs our hefted diapers in an expecting New American’s hatchback. Of course it is the children's fault.
As if you didn't choose to scream across the sky yourself way back. Our lot is to sleepwalk backwards into dominioned futures, covered, our ladies’ clueless Edens thriving on the margins we push. Get in the vans, kids.
Bauhausfrau is a writer living in the South with her husband and several young children.
Also by Bauhausfrau: Accidentally taking angels skating through hell
Also by Bauhausfrau: Accidentally taking angels skating through hell