Went to bed at one last night, the buzz from a shot of vodka and a White Russian not able to sufficiently dampen the bewilderment of what I had been watching unfold all night on the election map, or quiet the anxiety building over the prospect of a Trump presidency–and Republican control of both House and Senate. The math was not adding up, and that was even before Pennsylvania flipped from light blue to pale pink.
I went to bed hoping it was wrong, hoping that the late tally of ballots would be in Democratic stronghold precincts, while also knowing that a deficit of thirty, forty, fifty thousand votes is a lot to overcome. I went to bed hoping I could wake up in the morning, look at the results, and say, “Whew, that was a little dicey there.” Instead, I wake up and wonder how President-elect Trump will behave, how he will govern, whether he’ll squander his majority by attacking the senators and representatives who didn’t support him wholeheartedly throughout, whether he’ll follow through on his promises to sue the women who have accused him of sexual assault, whether he’ll actually ultimately launch (more) investigations into Clintons e-mails and throw her in jail. I wake up and realize that I’m actually going to have to put into practice–somehow–Stephen King’s words I posted here on Monday: “he’s not just the president but my president.” A good line, but it sure don’t taste too good right now.