As democracy is perfected, the office of president represents, more and more closely, the inner soul of the people. On some great and glorious day the plain folks of the land will reach their heart’s desire at last and the White House will be adorned by a downright moron.
H.L. Mencken
So, here we are. Again.
Shame on us.
And while I don’t take personal blame – this wasn’t my choice, so my conscience is clear, shallow victory though that may be – I’m still a part of the bigger “us.” I read an article yesterday stating that Americans can no longer say, “We’re better than this,” because we have proven we are not. This is exactly who we are, a country without morals, willing to turn a blind eye to fascism. It’s not like we don’t know exactly who he is or what he brings to the table, not this time (I refuse to even speak his name; he’s taken up enough brain space over the past 10+ years).
Look, I’m the most optimistic person on the planet (with the possible exception of Wynne Leon), but I feel utterly hopeless and defeated. This election broke me and killed my faith in…well, everything. It all seems pointless now, and that’s a scary feeling.
You know what stings the most? Seeing people I once respected and loved post gleefully about how “the country is saved” while my daughter and her wife now live in fear that they will lose their basic rights. They are absolutely right to be afraid, but sure, go ahead and gloat. Enjoy that extra dime you’ll save on a carton of eggs. And don’t come crying to me when it all falls apart.
It will all fall apart. You’re delusional if you think otherwise.
(Wow. Pessimism sucks.)
I’ve officially entered my Dark Period, it seems. Half my wardrobe is black, so I have a great head start. And instead of the jangly indie pop I normally gravitate toward, I’ve been listening almost nonstop to The Cure. Thank you, Robert Smith, for coming back after a 16-year hiatus. The new album is both timely and excellent. A melodic funeral dirge.
This isn’t the post I wanted to write, but it’s the one I needed to write, so please indulge me here. I’m sure I’ll return to the regularly scheduled fluff soon. But I need a few days to process.
Lying in bed Tuesday morning as reality sank in, we could barely hold back tears. “Let’s move to another country,” Tara said, a very appealing idea, but of course that’s a knee-jerk reaction. Despite our fondness for moving, we aren’t leaving the country, regardless of how fucked up it is.
Just for fun though, I asked which country Tara would choose.
“New Zealand,” she replied.
Not bad. If it was good enough for hobbits, I’d fit right in. But I couldn’t hack Christmas falling in the middle of summer.
Norway was my first choice, but it’s too close to Russia for Tara’s liking. Plus, can you even find cheese curds there?
Nope, we were born on American soil, and we shall die upon American soil. And while I’m not one to stick my head in the sand and ignore the world around me, that’s all I want to do right now. We’ve got each other, and the cats, and a great plot of land we can lose ourselves in.
And we’ve got The Cure.
Mark My Words 
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