The Cracks in The Ceiling and The Mirror Covered Up with Dust

As I’m writing this, it’s early morning the night after Election Day; I slept poorly, and finally gave in to the desire to check news around 4:45, as if there’d be an answer to what had happened, who had won. There wasn’t, of course.

It’s both melodramatic and honest to claim that my heart broke watching the results come in on Tuesday night, upon realizing that so many fucking people had voted for Donald Trump. It was far more upsetting than 2016, when he’d proven himself to be a terrible human being but it felt understandable that some could have fallen for his lies, not knowing any better; maybe that says something about my own prejudices, that I’m far more comfortable thinking half of the country is ignorant and easily led than simply selfish and cruel, but… but.

I genuinely can’t get over the desire to yell, you’ve seen how bad he is at every Trump supporter. Not just how bad he is meaning bigoted, vile, greedy, ignorant, and any of a number of accurate condemnations, each of them ready to fit: bad in the sense of inept, and unable to do what’s asked of him competently. And yet, and still, millions upon millions of Americans looked at him and thought, “Yeah, that’s our guy.” What the ever-living fuck.

(I’d say something here about it being a good thing that Trump and his administration was so inept, how it likely prevented things over the last four years from being even worse, but the fact of the matter is, so many are dead of the coronavirus because of the administration’s inability to do things right that it feels in poor taste.)

The cynical part of me expected Trump to win through, bluntly, obviously, theft. There’s still the possibility that will happen, sadly — never lose hope! — but the limbo we’re in, where it’s more clear than ever that almost half a country just wants him to win, is… endlessly, exhaustingly sad to me. And not because I slept so poorly.

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