It makes your soul tired

Five is my lucky number. It feels like it always has been, though I don’t know when I actually decided that. I remember I told someone, when I was 5, “Five is my lucky number.” And I remember them telling me that I was just saying that because it was my age, and I’d change my mind when I was 6, then 7, then 8, etc.

I fucking hate when people tell me what I’m going to do like they know me better than I do, so when I turned 6 I made sure to keep my lucky number the same.

“It’s still five,” I remember saying.

I’m 28 now. It’s still five.

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Depressing Things, Day 4

Hey, did you want to read something well-illustrated and extremely depressing today? Well cool, do I have a gift for you! Here’s an educated guess by Susie Cagle for Outside about what Trump’s first 100 days could look like for Mother Earth. And, you know, those of us who live on her. It’s definitely a worst-case scenario perspective, but uh, if you’re not thinking that we’re living the definition of a worst-case scenario, then I don’t know what to tell you!

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Goodbye, Obama. Thank you. 

If you read one thing today, make it this incredibly well researched and moving article about President Barack Obama and the letters from the American people that he read every day he was in office.

(Update: I changed my mind, you have to read two things today, because you should also know about Trump erasing the LGBTQ community and the truth about climate change — that it exists — on his very first day! And yes, I’ve read the Snopes page “explaining” this, but I still think the original point stands, and it’s still scary and worth knowing about.)

I have loved Obama for eight years and I mourn the fact that as of this evening I will no longer be able to call him my president. For the past eight years I have had the privilege of feeling as though my president cares deeply about me and about the citizens of this country, and when I go to sleep tonight I will no longer be able to say I feel that way.

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When will things feel okay? (Spoiler: Not today!)

Since the last time I wrote I’ve had so many ideas about things I would like to write about – hikes I completed last year, a reading list for living in authoritarian times, our DIY holiday gifts, visiting Southern Oregon, the non-linear march of time and personal growth, maybe even poetry (!!!) – and yet every time I have attempted to sit down and actually write I become consumed with anxiety.

Is this what the next four years will be like? Will I ever feel comfortable creating something personal and not strictly political again? How is the whole country not suffering from severe anxiety right now? Why do certain people I am close with seem completely fine with this terrifying turn of events? What is going to happen to all of us? When will things feel okay?

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That night in 2013 is no longer part of this universe

I wrote a lot of drafts for this blog last year that I didn’t publish at the time because I was still getting the hang of what I felt like sharing on the internet and what I wanted to keep for myself. Then a few months ago I read through those drafts and decided I did indeed want to share most of them, so I thought I’d start publishing them weekly or something, but then Donald J. Trump won the election and I got surgery and multiple colds and everything felt really horrible and hopeless and also it felt absurd to publish blog posts about my feelings in this time of panic and horror. But while I have yet to really figure out what the fuck to do, in a concrete way, to resist the realities of the world we are barreling steadily toward, I do know that not telling our stories in the Age of Donald J. Trump is not the answer. So here is a story I wrote in a bar almost a year ago, that I chose not to share until tonight. For what it’s worth, the night I wrote this essay in 2016 is no longer part of this universe either, ’cause that’s just the way things go.

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