Brief moments of anger and confusion rising up. I still want someone to pay for something. I still think I deserve something, some kind of satisfaction. I still think I am somebody, and other people need to recognize my somebody-ness. I don’t know why. I weep from all of the cracks and holes in me. There really isn’t any way I am going to get to heaven if I expect to just be really nice the rest of my life. It still wouldn’t be enough to make up for all of the times I was terrible–no, I did and thought evil. I crossed over.
Even still, I spend way too much time imagining how lovely it would be to be called to a nice, pitch-perfect Midwestern college town, with just enough diversity to be mildly interesting, but not enough poor people that I actually have to work too hard. The good, soft life of dividing my time between the old folks homes and the library–reading, studying, praying–watching the decline of America continue.
The moment in our history when we become an empire or dictatorship, when we cross that line–it’s almost upon us. We might stave it off for another eight years, but the thought of Trump being President won’t be enough to scare enough people. Too many people are in love with the idea of a clueless loudmouth becoming Commander-in-Chief.