Embrace Me, My Sweet Impeachable You

B.G. Pelaire
Nov 1 · 2 min read

Along with feeling a palpable and satisfying joy at the news of the confirmed upcoming public impeachment proceedings by the House of Representatives, I also began to feel a sort of melancholy, a sense of impending loss. The wonderful anger and sense of purpose which has possessed me for the last three years may soon be gone, with the heavens opening up and Trump tossed out its doors, or at least, out of the doors of the White House.

The Twitter connections and jokes and memes, the new friends made and enemies blocked, waking up to see if anything happened or is about to–these may all be thrown aside in the race to return to smiling at strangers, talking to my immediate family, and getting some work done. I am not looking forward to it. I like my “woke” self better, thank you very much President Obama, and I will be disappointed if my sense of urgency about Locking Him (and Them) Up is not transferred to another equally urgent and important cause.

I assume the new cause would be to choose a viable and Democratic candidate to work for, or take up climate change and send in $50 to have lunch with Greta, or maybe just the usual amorphous “inequality” I have occasionally been concerned about over the last fifty years. Liz Warren, Kamala Harris and Pete Buttigieg seem worth a look, though any of these three would win my state in a landslide anyway. I’m not sure what exactly I could do to affect climate change seriously since I’m not the owner or even shareholder in the 70 or 100 corporations that produce 80% of the dastardly emissions. I already don’t single-use my plastics, recycle everything, and I am considering trying an Impossible Burger. As for inequality, I guess I could ring up Jeff Bezos and ask him to spread a little equality my way. Or maybe do more housework.

None of these post-Trump-era undertakings have the same appeal, though. None guarantee the same determined, absolute belief in my own righteousness that Tweeting about “Let’s the fuck get going” has given me. So a tinge of sadness accompanies my hope that Trump and every person he has ever known will be dissolved in acid or fed polonium for lunch.

So, Nancy, I’m seriously considering turning off C-Span as soon as McGahn testifies and settling in with some quinoa chips to watch the Three Stooges on YouTube. Love to see ‘em poke each other in the eye.

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