Bleach

My house smells like bleach. Not because I’m cleaning, nor am I drinking it. I’ve reverted to my punky 12 year old self and to keep from screaming every time the news comes on, I’m writing an anything I can with a Clorox Bleach Pen.

I sometimes feel that my belief in the power of words, and of Democracy, is naive and will never lead to anything but yelling at the television and disappointment. But, I keep at it. I have faith that it and we can be better.

I actually do care, Melania Trump. Millions of us do.

I believe in the power of words, of fashion, of voting, and of peaceful protest.

If nothing else, bleach is an outlet, a pillow to scream in, and one more small thing I can do, in addition to writing letters to voters through The Big Send and votefwd.org and donating financially what little I can. On January 20th, I want to be able to say that I did everything I could to preserve what’s left of our Democracy and to defeat the sociopathic baby now in charge.

So, until then, I’ll just be over here with my bleach stick, pen, envelopes, and stamps, researching guillotines and trying not to scream.

Vote.

Wear a mask.

Wash your hands.

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