A pause between panic attacks
There’s a street down here. Yellow Brick Road. (Honest to goodness.) On one side is a house with a simple Clinton-Kaine sign. Across the street, the house has 11 signs that include “lock her up” and “hang the bitch.” I know it’s one street in one town. But if anyone asked me why I lie awake, that’s the story I tell.
The way Election night is going so far, I might as well go to bed. The apocalypse is about two hours away. And I haven’t been able to catch my breath since Patrick Murphy lost to little Marco, the ghost senator.
How the fuck can people vote for an angry yam, though? I am on the cusp of the mother of all yam fits.
Breathe.
Drink.
Repeat.
Let’s rewind back to when I was only exhausted from another night of waking up in a cold sweat every hour over Yam I Am …
