Before I drank the mule:
I took a morning run in the delicious, freaky, late-November warmth, and as I felt the calm wind rush against my face, I wondered how the air could feel so comfortable after such a treacherous night in America.
I went to work and braced myself for the black-and-white, clear-cut judgments from my super liberal coworkers, knowing that even though I was outraged, too, I wouldn’t as wholeheartedly agree with their convictions that people on the wrong side of history are pure evil, because really, I just want everyone to love each other, as naive and impractical as that may be.
I worried that my skirt was too short to be office-appropriate because it was, though it hadn’t seemed so short at home in the mirror.
I was shocked when no one at the office even mentioned Ferguson; were these people who claimed to be so progressive only insistent on demanding human rights when it came to abortion laws?
I thought about how I was glad I didn’t have children in this screwed-up place–but that’s not really true, because the world has always been part crap, part gorgeous, and though we don’t have to accept all of the crap, we also can’t wait to procreate until it’s perfect.
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