Democracy Works (Against Me)

I guess one cannot spend the next four years in a fetal position, muttering "so cold, so cold" to oneself. No dammit, one is expected to rise from one's bed of carpet, to shower, to brush one's teeth, to crawl from one's (metaphorical?) Jack Daniels' bottle and get on with life. Perhaps visit one of our nation's national parks, while they are still there.

In the five days since the election, I have passed through the five Kubler-Ross "Stages of Grief," and now find myself with a tenuous grip on "acceptance." This is, of course, vulnerable to backsliding. It's entirely possible I remain lodged between anger and denial, as evidenced by my fading hope that several thousand uncounted ballots are waiting to be found in a Toledo church basement (a concession speech isn't legally binding, after all!).

Mes amis will all have our cri de couers, check real estate prices in Vancouver and reassure ourselves with cold comforts like "perhaps getting our asses handed to us for 20 of the last 28 years is the best thing that could happen to the Democratic party."