Oh, man, what a nightmare. I dreamt that it was November, and I had just unenthusiastically voted in the presidential election. Joe Biden had swept all the primaries, had picked some unmemorable, faceless white man as his VP, and bumbled his way through a few ugly debates. The Democratic party had successfully doused the flickering flames of progressive activism in this country, inserting their establishment apparatchik into the running for the highest office, and he was prepared to appoint a phalanx of bankers and insurance executives into his cabinet. On election day I voted for that stooge, dreading the next four years of either his toothy smug grin or a repeat of the orange fascist, and, while I was unhappy with either choice, my decision was forced. And now I was just waiting for the election results. I felt exactly as I did on election day in 2016, grim and doomed.
Then I woke up.
My doctor had warned me that my toradol injection would wear off after about 6 hours and I’d have to fall back on ibuprofen for my achey bones, and she was right. Ouch. So I just took some painkillers and am waiting for them to kick in, and thought I’d write up my horrible dream.
It was just a nightmare, right? I’m not going to look at the election news. I need to get back to sleep.