Iowa Election 2018, Final Entry.

Illustration by John Kalman

Worked out and took a hot shower to Bob Dylan, Blonde on Blonde. The steam cleared my head a bit and I realized that I feel good today. Like, good-good. It took waking up to glorious news to get the perspective that the last two years have been like one long dental appointment, a low-humming headache that doesn’t ruin your day, but refuses to go the fuck away.

That’s cleared up now. My brain is now left to ruminate among its own anxieties for the first time in two years. I don’t think I fully realized how shaken up I was about this Russian interference thing. It really did make me lose faith in our election process entirely. In my heart of hearts, I tried to prepare myself for the fuckers stealing this election as well. Some new trick. Ballots spontaneously combusting of their own accord. Hypnotizing socialists with microwave burrito frequencies. No theory was too wretched, and the paranoia stretched out in my mind like gum on hot pavement.

In some sick, worst-case scenario way, I’ve been harboring last-ditch fantasies about fleeing to Canada and actually being able to grow old. Now I can die here at home, without proper healthcare and a mountain of student loan debt, knowing that there will always be some tired souls who will climb up the fucking stairs and power up the lighthouse of sanity. Voters, complete strangers, can do this much.

It will snow soon. The cat has abandoned her morning, mid-day and afternoon sunning spots for a deeper, darker curl on the couch. Soon, I become a captain of the Old Navy, wearing strange synthetic fleece and pushing my hygiene to limits that only my students can endure. They have to. They’re in this boat as well. After living in Ohio, England, Ohio again, Georgia and California, this will be my first proper winter in 18 years. I’m not sure how this will unfold for my sanity, but if I have only the hot showers and Bob Dylan to count on, along with a restored, minimal faith in my government, that will do. Pushing off.