I stare blankly into the distance at the unfolding horror story of the inevitable doom approaching our nation, because:
Donald Trump’s a blustery Clinton plant who faces a serious “oh shit!” moment if elected, one that lasts four years (at most, please!), turning America into a no-shit “oh shit!” show.
Hillary Clinton’s a false feminist, lying fascist, megalomaniacal criminal, war hawk, and Obama clone who has been leaking evilness since before Bobby Kennedy’s assassination.
Gary Johnson’s a wishy-washy wimp without a prayer, but, hey, check out Libertarianism anyway; it’s really not so bad.
Jill Stein’s a nut-job doctor determined to spend the country into a Hades oblivion while handcuffing investors at every level, just like Trump and Clinton (and especially Bernie), because, save Earth so we can’t afford to acknowledge it’s been saved, let alone enjoy it.
And even if, before the election, Clinton is indicted for something (options are many and meaty), and Trump finally implodes for real, Joe Biden’s a senile, creepy-uncle pervert who falls asleep on camera like the rest of them (e.g., Bill at Hillary’s DNC acceptance speech).
Embrace the suck.
Or, you know, move. I’m staying put for the bloody spectacle–albeit indefinitely burrowed deep into a fog-enshrouded artistic and literary den of avoidance. It’s clear, after all, I could do much, much worse.