I manage my fantasy baseball team better than I manage my anger these days, and I’d trade my best pitcher for a draft-pick and picture of the president writhing in pain. It’s a weird thing to wish for but I can’t stop wishing, refreshing the browser, someday if I live long enough and the world doesn’t end my wish will come true, in a way, and he’ll die like we all die, in pain or asleep, and we’ll still have our fantasy baseball, and the next fascist fucker in line for the job of demolishing hope for us all. So I’m putting in love now, I’m putting in faith, putting fear on a long-term IL. I’m going outside, I’m going to help organize something better. Something beautiful.