Dear Outrage

We Are Better Than This

Dear Outrage,

Wow, it’s been a wild 18 months. I wanted to check in and see how you’re doing. You’ve been putting in a lot of hours, and I’m worried.

I hope you’re taking care of yourself. I admit my interest in your overall health is a tad selfish. I need you. You are a candle, a tiny flickering flame in the cavernous abyss that is today.

Sorry, I don’t mean to put all this pressure on you. I really am concerned about your well-being. Is there anything you need? Perhaps a kale and chia smoothie? Sure, it tastes like how moldy carpet smells, but it’s loaded with vitamins and nutrients.

You could go on a little vacation, maybe spend a day at the beach, soaking in the sun and briny ocean air. If you can’t get away, then commit yourself to mental staycations, five minutes here and there to stretch and center yourself.

I wish I could send you on an extended holiday, a nice Caribbean cruise or a backpacking adventure through Europe. Alas, this doesn’t seem possible right now. You never know when you’ll be rousted from bed or called away in the middle of dinner.

Just so you know, I do feel guilty. I understand you have a life, but I don’t know what else to do. There’s no reprieve! Three terrible things happened this morning in the thirty minutes it took me to get to work.

I’m seeing you all over Twitter lately. I admit, unleashing 240 characters of precisely crafted righteousness is fun, but it’s largely pointless. When you’re feeling especially blue, social media can be a good way to inflate your fragile ego. Throwing some shade at xenophobia will get you some likes and might temporarily relieve your stress, but it’s not a long-term solution. I’m not saying give up Twitter. Maybe just dial it back a bit. If you’re feeling indignant, why not use that energy at the yet-unscheduled, date-to-be-determined, future protest? Pace yourself. Don’t use up all your precious fury on internet trolls.

You may think engaging them in conversation will be fruitful, that you can change their beliefs. You can’t. And sure, it’s cathartic to label their ideas as “mayonnaise left out in the sun” or call them “unemployed, sexually frustrated man-boys who live in their parent’s basement,” but your words are their fuel. They subsist on Cool Ranch Doritos and anger.

I probably sound desperate. Maybe I am. You’re all I have left. I haven’t seen joy or kindness lately, and I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you. You’re my sole source of power. My internal fire has all but been extinguished by this president, Congress, and the courts.

Some days all I want to do is curl up in the fetal position and suck my thumb. You keep me from drinking too much and, when I do, you make sure I brush the vomit smell from my mouth before going out in public. Without you, I’d wear nothing but stained sweatpants and a worn HOPE t-shirt from Barack Obama’s 2008 campaign. God, I’m so clingy. See what has happened to me! I can’t remember the last time I was apathetic.

Anyway, thank you. I know you’re busy. I’m sure we’ll see each other soon. In the meantime, please be like Ruth Bader Ginsburg and do some pushups.



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