I am very pleased for Mayor Wilson. Even if only to spite The Seattle Times, the venture vultures who turned this city into a drab tech campus, and everyone at work who called her “that women” for her “lack of experience.”
From Zohran to Katie — two shots in the dark and faint glimmers of hope. A chance to do something or royally fuck it up. Only time will tell.
But right now? Right now? They’re two middle fingers saluting the hellscape. And that’s just fine.
I put this up as a story but now I’m putting it up on main. I struggle with the reality we’re living in. G—cide, elite trafficking rings, the absolute worst of humanity stripped bare—and yet we’re supposed to just keep behaving like our little plans and routines matter.
Day after day, I function just fine, until I don’t. Until I’m hit with the existential nausea of it all. This is our world. It is the definition of mental illness.
Nausea is the only word I can think for it. Nausea a la Sartre. Nausea from every pitch and roll, every yaw, surge, sway, and heave of every new revelation. And the utter pointlessness of keeping our affairs afloat in the deluge.
Glimmers of hope in the distance. Our stupid vessels in the dark.
That’s the balance sheet. Light and shadow. Sacred and profane. Cope and collapse. Do and die.