Eleven soaring floors above, if you’re counting. The move is officially complete.
Every single thing I own, silverware to sofa, was schlepped up here in a freight elevator over the course of three long, exhausting days. And I have the bruises to prove it, they’re everywhere, even my rib cage. My muscles are strained, my fingernails are broken, and I feel shorter, quite a bit shorter, in fact. But it’s done, finito.
Little did I know when I moved how disconnected an eleventh floor apartment could seem. Here, high above it all, I can ignore the election news. I can stay away from the Internet, avoid television, and pretend the world hasn’t lost its goddamn effing marbles, even as my mind screams, ‘this didn’t happen.’ Nope, it didn’t. The decent, stouthearted America I knew and loved still exists, in much the same manner as Oz and Narnia.
Please tell me this is a nightmare or I’m delusional, something, anything, just not that Trump was actually elected. You know, never mind, it doesn’t matt — ooh, a bull’s-eye. Would you excuse me a moment?
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