My Cardboard Balcony

Two Hundred Seventy by Belinda Roddie Two hundred seventy, the magical number that the good people didn't reach. The bumbling, incoherent fascist, tall and strident in his hate, had much to teach those who felt that this country just wasn't scummy enough. Two hundred seventy electoral votes could have surely sent the first woman to the White House, and we, the ones with privilege, yes, are to blame. So maybe in four years, we will be banned from protesting the tyrant and his mane, our freedoms taken, not as we had planned, dragging us closer to an endless night - but under the moon, we will stay and fight.

Every individual - regardless of race, religion, gender identity, sexual orientation, age, family origins, or disability - deserves every freedom written on that goddamn piece of paper that is meant to guarantee life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Do not forget that. Do not also forget that blood was shed to keep those freedoms alive, and more than once. If we have to fight, then we fight.