I sure did rock that vote.
I’m about to leave my cozy little woodland apartment — a nicer place than I will likely ever actually live in my life — to head to town, and what is affectionately known as “The Tray”; a mobile home next to the theatre company’s main venue, overlooking some abandoned railroad tracks that occasionally serve as base-camp for a variety of hobos. There, I will sit with The Tray’s main inhabitant, Samantha, along with regular visitors Kayla and Jake, and we will watch a marathon of RuPaul’s Drag Race: All Stars on one TV screen, and election coverage on another. I don’t know that there’s any more accurate summation of our particular friend-group’s political proclivities.
I’ll want to drink all the wine and eat whatever sugary, carb-y, ice cream-y concoction Samantha is sure to conjure into existence, culinary sorceress that she is, but then the past five days of eating nothing but vegetables, meat, some fruit, and the occasional scoop of protein powder will have been for naught, and damned if I’m going to start from square one for, like, the nine-thousandth time this year. If I’m gonna drop twenty pounds before the Mayans get here and engulf us all in the righteous, cleansing flames of Eternity, then it’s time for me to nut the hell up already and get it done.
Okay. Off I go. Fingers crossed that the country goes with the guy whose views on things like sexuality and women’s rights aren’t culled from the same era as when leeches were considered the height of medical care. Don’t let me down, ‘merica.