It’s one of those days where the sky is a mushy cap of of gray, where it’s difficult to believe that up there somewhere, beyond, the sun shines as merrily as it ever has. It may be raining.
It’s probably raining.
I had a couple of ideas for posts this morning, but when I sat here to write them, they just didn’t bubble, so I’ve dutifully noted them, and maybe they’ll surface later this week. We’ll see. Instead, today, there’s an odd spongy feeling, much like the air, as we wait to find out if our Congress will really gut the core of this country, gouge out its heart to serve on the platters of the rich.
So far it’s looking like a yes. A yes built on direct profit by members of Congress. Yes, Bob Corker, I’m looking at you and that #CorkerKickback.
This is the part of the plot where you start to think ir won’t turn out OK, that the story is doomed, that the characters you’ve come to know are doomed, that the imaginary world is doomed. Only it’s not a story, and we’re not characters, and our world is not imaginary.
As far as we know.
It would be easier if all of this were fiction, because then we could simply close the book. Let me tell you, I’d do with great enjoyment and a big, loud thunk.
Call your members of Congress, if you have them, and if it’s not too late. Let’s give this story a happy ending.
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