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Election anxiety

I have self diagnosed myself with “election anxiety”. My symptoms include:

-a strong burning desire to leave the country for the election, in the event that the results are not in my candidate’s favor.

-an inability to discuss anything about politics without feeling hopeless and miserable and angst ridden.

-an profound ability to sound confrontational even when discussing politics with people who agree with me wholeheartedly.

-a roller coaster of emotions depending on which way the polls swing. If the polls swing in my favor, I am flooded with a sort of tentative relief. If the polls swing the other way, I spend a lot of time threatening to move to Panama and casting dispersions on our country.

-nervousness when speaking to anyone about anything if I don’t know how they stand within the political spectrum.

-a reddening of my face when driving in the country and observing campaign signs that are not for my candidate of choice.

-an inability to listen or watch any news at all. My sole news source is the NY times, which is in favor of my candidate, or a brief scan of cnn-dot-com headlines to see if there is positive news about my candidate. I only click on the news of which the headlines seem to spin my candidate in a favorable light.

-an overwhelming hatred of Track, Trig, Bristol, and whatever other ridiculous morons were produced by a ridiculous moronic woman with a bee hive. This symptom is accompanied by a very real desire to take this said person in question and, as Chris Rock would say, “shake the shit out of her”.

-strong memory recall of the last presidential election, after which I drank too much whiskey and ran around town screaming at people that they were apathetic.

If anyone knows of any cures, I’m on the hunt. Thanks.

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What is Wapato?

Wapato is an Indian Potato, dug by the native people in the early spring for it’s starchy carbohydrates. It is also a 2.6 mile long trail easily accessible from my office. It is a place where I think, walk, run, horseback ride, and watch the seasons turn. I mark the first Indian plum of the season, and shudder at the advances of the reed canary grass, which threatens to take over the world. I evaluate my existence in all of it’s unremarkable form as I navigate my way through my burgeoning adulthood.

I belong to that place, that small and relatively unspectacular path of dirt and encroaching weeds.  

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