Every good hyperbolic and slightly paranoid wig-flip deserves a corresponding display of calm abiding. Like Yang needs Yin, sour needs sweet and Fred needs Wilma, a sweepingly generalized meltdown like the one I posted here last night needs an antidote.
My apportioned allotment of testosterone seems to be just shy of the amount needed to imbue me with an admiration of powerful men (not to mention an understanding of the appeal of spectator sports). Hence, authoritarian personalities are my Achilles heel. But how could I possibly understand peace without exposure to the forces of aggression? A calmness that’s never known a storm is called a coma.
As a potential panacea, I leave you with the most perfect song I could think of to end this early morning attempt to conjure good vibes from the ether. Here’s the adorable and quirky Kimya Dawson giving us a heady dose of hope to counteract political angst and love to counteract despair: