Caution: Short rant ahead. If you don’t want to read it, skip to the end.
By the time I post this, there will be about a week left until Thanksgiving in the U.S., and I’m hoping to have regained my appetite by then. Right now the prospect of a feast seems about as appealing as a pile of cinders.
This election has been brutal. My usual escape hatch from reality, the Internet, is clogged like a backed up sewage system since the levee of common sense broke. Fake news stories. Bad polling. Comments in all caps. Vitriol and venom. All resulting in . . .
Whoa. Whoa. Whoa.
I promised myself I’d avoid talking about politics. I’m fatigued from being cranked up to level eleven with the angst/shock/outrage/disbelief and I’m sure those of you with souls are, too.
Additionally, why would you want to hear the opinions of a mixed-race, mixed-up-religion writer of humorous mysteries . . . that also feature a mixed-race, mixed-up humorous female?
What’s the value of listening to personal accounts of a person who’s been called a “Spic,” “dyke,” “fat-ass,” “Paki,” and other names before I was even old enough to vote? (I’m only one of those, by the way.)
It’s not all gloom and doom.
Deep breath. Have a sip of water.
We still have designers and inventors, scientists and developers. We still have young people and optimism. We still have people who don’t become psychotic at the sight of a piece of cloth covering a woman’s head. We still have snarky comedians, and dour ones, too. We have dance and music, and mayors who won’t use police to round up immigrants.
And we still have fiction.
Thanks for that.
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