It's the day after the election. I have spent the last two days in a (mostly effective) all media blackout. I had voted. I had donated to my candidates of choice- there was nothing to be seriously gained by obsessing over every tiny morsel of information scattered like birdseed along a trail. Trump did much better than the polls expected. The fucking senate, and most of those candidates of choices failed miserably, and America proved itself to be 48.5% racist misanthropes bent on revenge against science and education that they perceived to keep them and their ignorance pinned to the ground. No winner was declared election night. I went to bed feeling physically sick- I had been so sure that Biden would deliver us from the Tangerine antichrist resoundingly and with extreme prejudice. It wasn't to be. Today it looked like he was inching towards the most razor sharp of victories. As I write this, it still isn't over. Trump is hysterically pulling all kinds of shenanigans, but Biden only needs Nevada, where he presently leads to win. No one feels secure in any of this. It's clear that polling no longer works. It's clear that people like the turd more than they are willing to say out loud to a call center pollster. I am still hopeful.
I was hopeful in 2000, 2004 and 2016 too, look what that got us.
I had fitful fever dreams last night, waking up often with an incongruous image that I was unable to quit: that of a plastic bag of orange liquid that was somehow grafted to my audio cart- they were one and the same- but they couldn't be- they had to be separated. It was like forging an alternate reality to do so, and I kept returning to the image, which made no logical sense, over and over until I felt nauseous. It reminded me of a recurring dream I had as a child, a nightmare. In the dream there was a huge dump truck and in it's bed was a single tiny Q-tip, except the Q-tip, regardless of it's small size, totally filled the truck to capacity. I could not break free of the strange discord of the abstract idea that the truck could be full of something so tiny. I remember waking up in a frenzy after dreaming this. As an adult I have thought of finding a dump truck and putting a Q-tip in it to stop the image's power- I feel anxious writing this, thinking about it. I think
Trump is the Q-tip
