Hi Stacey

Hi Stacey!

I’m trying something completely different today. I have a hundred thrown out letters I’ve almost sent to you. I’ve been overthinking our correspondences, most die as partially-formed essays in my notebook. A couple are finished, sitting in Pages docs on my desktop. So I’m drafting this message live. I haven’t planned what to say or how I’ll say it. I’m just going to attempt to express exactly how I feel in this moment. Maybe that’s of interest to you.

Today is the 2024 United States presidential election. I’m not that nervous because, for whatever reason, I’ve decided to believe in the common sense of the American people. I think Kamala Harris will be the next president. I feel…a certain way about this election. Melancholy is too strong a word, but that’s the best I can come up with now. I was so beyond pumped to elect the first female president…in 2016. Instead my entire world view was basically shattered. I know that makes me sound naive. I was naive, Stacey.

I used to believe all people were Good and everything would always Work Out. The 2016 election taught me, ohmygod, those very basic beliefs were exactly that: very basic. Like a typical child of the 90s, I had learned about racism and misogyny, but I had learned about them in the past tense. They only existed in the past tense, even when I was experiencing or witnessing them in the present. In short, yes, I gaslit myself for twenty-plus years. I changed in November 2016. It breaks my heart to know I am less trusting and more bitter than I was eight years ago. On the other hand, it was dangerous for me to be so trusting before. And my newfound bitterness is a neighbor to justice. Maybe I can’t have one without the other. Or, maybe I can. I’m not sure yet.

So this not not melancholy looms over me. Because sometimes when I hear Kamala Harris speak, I am inspired. And I am grateful she’s loudly and proudly for queer rights and abortion rights and, allegedly, supporting the middle class. Also, my god, she is a woman. A smart, driven, beautiful woman. I want to cheer. But, Stacey, Kamala Harris is currently aiding the Palestinian genocide. I mean, I know, or, I don’t know, but I hope, if it really were as simple as pressing a “CEASEFIRE” button, she would. But there’s all the corruption and all the international relations and most disgustingly, the election.

In my most optimistic dreams, I pray Kamala just said those sickening sound bites about shooting her gun at an intruder or having a “lethal fighting force” because she had to, for the stupid election. Maybe her heart didn’t mean it. Maybe she will walk it back, asap, once elected. Notice I am saying “once,” not “if.”

Stacey, I cannot do another four years with 45. None of us can. Like, literally, we’re about to be so pummeled with climate disasters until we destroy Big Oil. If we destroy Big Oil. (I do say “if” when it comes to Big Oil. Remember, I’m no longer as naive as I once was.) We cannot have 45 managing those disasters. Rather, 45 cannot manage those disasters.

Stacey, I’ve heard for the first time ever the government is using AI to help count ballots. He can’t win, Stacey. That puffed up Cheeto-lookin’ senile rapist narcissist. He just can’t. I don’t even know what I’ll do. So, please, Stacey, don’t let it happen.

It’s evening in Los Angeles. This morning I woke up, as the sun was rising over the palm trees. I did a dance workout and was at the cafe by 7:30. I met my honey, we drank iced coffees, I journaled. I came home and doomscrolled, read some of the book Prep, worked on a little gig, had a meeting about the new B*rbie series I’m writing, went to the dentist. I had to get gum injections for $195. They weren’t covered by insurance, but I did need them. I just ate a little Armenian salad wrap and watched about fifteen minutes of Love Is Blind. I am writing you. I’ll write again soon.

Waiting for a sign.

xo

Alice