I don’t have any new comments about Trump becoming Commander in Fuckery other than these tweets:
It’s not because there isn’t more to say. My crappy body just doesn’t allow me to dwell on stressful shit. Whenever I do, hello chest pains, puking, and my back turning into a rock. Luckily, writing has always been a reliable way to vent those frustrations.
As someone who falls into multiple demographics affected by this election, being as healthy as I can be is how I survive this. There won’t be a lot of sitting on my hands though. I can still make phone calls to very chipper aides who may or may not deliver my angry messages to my useless representatives(yay, Georgia!), and continue writing the kind of stories that were a sanctuary for me when the real world was just too fucking awful.