half eaten donut

Election season is like a modern day rendition of medieval warfare, in a way. A power struggle to end all power struggles.

You fight for something that resembles freedom from your claustrophobic cubicle in the midwest. Your laptop your trusty steed. Excel your Excalibur.

Our potential future leaders battle for supremacy with endless millennial tech assistance. There’s an army of youthful, white-collar workers churning out spreadsheets and maps to offer support and further the cause.

But, I’m just sitting here in my shiny 14th street castle, uninvolved, waiting for my prince to return from the fray and ravage me.

All the good men were whisked away weeks ago, but I miss you especially.

I’m tired of important adults throwing tantrums and angrily demanding positions of power they shouldn’t be entitled to.

I’m ready for this 500-day race to come to an end. We’re in the final lap, I know. I counted. 32 days to go.

I want my friends and lovers back. There have been too many flights. Too many bus rides. Too many rental cars.

Come home.

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