“Hey, pretty mami.” I’m walking back to my apartment dragging a hand cart filled with a new, heavy bag of cat litter, when I pass two drunk men who are stumbling home in the middle of the day and brandishing open bottles to keep the buzz going. My hair isn’t brushed, and I’m wearing a winter coat down to my knees, but that doesn’t keep one of them from calling out to me, or the other from adding, “You are… sex.” Because, I can only assume, in his drunken state he literally could not come up with a single other thought.
Like millions of Americans, I woke up early the Wednesday following election day and immediately turned to my phone to read what I was sure was going to be terrible news. I had stayed up most of the previous night watching the results slowly trickle in with complete horror and finally closed my eyes for a few hours of sleep just to keep myself from falling apart completely. Every news site I could load in my phone confirmed: Donald “Pussy Grabbing” Trump was the future president of the United States...
Deal Us In 