Category: CP

Migrate Love Story

This morning, I heard the honkings of the first geese of the season returning to their northern homes after a winter spent vacationing in the southern sun. Their appearance is one rung in the ladder that leads my community from the desolate depths of winter up and out to our long-awaited Vermont summer reward. After brunch with my friend, Gina, I ventured downtown to Uncommon Migrate Love StoryGrounds, navigating through a flock of college kids who had migrated down the hill after a winter spent in their dorms. I even saw the obligatory fraternity brother wearing his shorts approximately two weeks too early, which is yet another rung in that ladder.

I’m now sitting in the back of the coffee shop at a table at which, 6 years earlier, I awkwardly made conversation with a blind date. The blind date didn’t lead to anything (as was often the case back then in that infamous 2003) except a string of more blind dates at other Burlington establishments. In fact, if hard-pressed, I’m sure I could think of a date for 90% of the restaurants, bars, theatres, parks, and barns in the area. Let’s face it: the longer you live somewhere, the easier it is for you to find the remains of past heartaches splattered like graffiti love poems on the walls of businesses. If you add in the heartaches of all of your friends, you’ll find every inch of town covered with the tags of exes.

Migrate Love StoryLast summer, while she and I were experiencing our respective relationship heartaches, Sarah the L and I noticed what seemed to be a trend in our generation: all around us (i.e., friends, relatives, coworkers, friends of friends, new roommates, etc.), couples were breaking up. Even Ms. Darling and I bonded over our respective break-ups. There was no overlooking it; the Summer of 2008 was the Summer of Lovesickness. I asked Sarah the L recently if she had any theories as to why this happened. Jokingly (I think), she blamed Barack Obama. She said in a “year riddled with messages of ‘change’ and ‘hope,’” … people couldn’t help but wonder if they should upgrade their Bush for an Obama. She also thought the Summer of Lovesickness could be explained by a person’s reasonable tendency to respond to a friend’s “personal growth through trial” by reflecting on needed growth in his/her own life. Humans are impressionable creatures and for the same reasons a floor of college girls ends up on the same menstrual cycle by the end of a semester, a group of close friends most likely travels similar emotional-growth routes.

I posed this question to Sarah after a quick glimpse at an ex’s Facebook page (you do it, too) confirmed what I had long-before assumed: Hypothetical was now married (thus making her boyfriend’s Hypothetical now her husband’s Factual) and consequently, had become yet another in a long line of exes who had married the first serious boyfriend she dated after me (an ever-expanding sorority of women that also includes Widget, The Redhead, Stalker Girl, and The PT [it’s also worth noting that San Fran Girl and I never officially dated, but after our falling-out, she started dating the man to whom she’s now engaged]). This confirmed my long-standing belief that at some point in my life I had become Penultimate Man, the noble super-hero doomed to a life of boosting various women’s self esteems just enough for them to spread their wings and fly off to their future husbands. Considering I boosted Ms. Darling’s self esteem before sending her back to her stripper-loving ex, I wouldn’t be surprised if she got engaged to him within the year.

After spending a day contemplating my curse (aka, my exgirlfriends’ blessing), I asked Sarah what she thought it would take to become Ultimate Man. She wasn’t entirely sure because she has been dealing with similar demons, but she hoped one day soon she could rip open her shirt to show the world the blaze of UW (Ultimate Woman) across her chest, thus confirming my long-standing belief that she’s an exhibitionist.

Because I’m convinced that it is the perfect metaphor for every situation in life (including concerns about one’s penultimate tendencies), I’m yet again reminded of rock climbing. I haven’t talked about my adventures with rock climbing recently because after steadily improving for two months, my climbing skills have frustratingly hit a plateau. I should have known my progress would eventually decelerate: I have a history of excelling at a learned skill (e.g., guitar playing; mathematics; chess) only to reach my natural limit beyond which I can’t improve without prolonged resolute training, something my Benchly-of-Many-Skills, Master-of-None will-power has prohibited me from ever accomplishing. I’m determined to excel at this sport, though, and so I’m doing the only things in my control to ensure that that happens: consistent practice, and learning from other climbers. And as I direct my climbing questions to more experienced climbers, because I’m terrified of being Penultimate Man forever, I pose my relationship questions to my friends.

In addition to Sarah, I solicited love advice from CP and she responded with disbelief that I had asked her; she doesn’t consider herself an expert on relationships, though, she noted, her relationship had thus far survived 10 years. But truthfully, as much time as Sarah and I spend pondering how to keep love afloat, and as painfully educational as our break-ups have been, and as much success as CP has had at cultivating her love, and as much unsolicited Migrate Love Storyadvice as I’ve received in the last year, I honestly don’t think any of us have any idea of how to succeed at love with or without really trying. If you think I’m wrong, just look at our society’s divorce rates.

Uncommon Grounds is closing soon and I’m afraid, my dear readers (read: reader), that I don’t have an answer for you. I wonder if I ever will. And as I prepare to venture home against a gorgeous sunset backdrop (with views like this, can you blame the geese for coming back each spring?) while being serenaded with the sounds of college kids and geese, a bird that spends the majority of its life devoted to its “mate for life,” I can’t help but wonder if maybe I’m just looking for the answers in the wrong place.

Benchly At the Bat

In honor of my summer beer-league softball team’s first practice/scrimmage tonight, I’d like to share with you a poem I spoofed last year after CP and I challenged each other to a wiffle ball duel during our lunch break. With apologies to Ernest L. Thayer, I present to you, my faithful readers, Benchly At The Bat:

Then from five throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through Waterbury, and rattled in the dell;
It knocked upon Green Mountain Coffee and recoiled upon the flat,
For Benchly, mighty Benchly, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Benchly’s manner as he stepped into his place,
There was pride in Benchly’s bearing and a smile on Benchly’s face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he pretended to doff his hat,
No coworker in the crowd could doubt ’twas Benchly at the bat.

At least ten eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
And then five tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher, CP, ground the ball into her hip,
Defiance gleamed in Benchly’s eye, a sneer curled Benchly’s lip.

And now the little plastic sphere came hurtling with a wiffle sound,
And Benchly swung with all his might, nearly falling to the ground,
And missed the ball completely, for it curved as much as it sped.
“YES!” said CP, “No!” said Benchly, “Strike one,” the umpire said.

With a smile of confidence, great Benchly’s visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult of the coworkers and bade the game go on;
He signaled to CP and once more the wiffle ball flew;
Benchly swung and missed the high heat and the umpire said, “Strike two!”

“Yes!” cried CP again, and the tension slowly grew,
But then she wasted the next two pitches and the count went 2 and 2 .
The coworkers saw Benchly’s face grow stern, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Benchly wouldn’t miss that ball again.

The sneer was gone from Benchly’s lip, his teeth were clinched in hate;
He pounded with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now CP holds the ball and now she lets it go,
And now the ball is shattered by the force of Benchly’s blow.

Oh! somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy for CP– mighty Benchly hit one out.

"She fades just out of sight so there isn’t any sweetness in the dreaming…"

When I was 14, I went on a weekend church retreat with Sister #2 and Papa Benchly to a tiny white church in a small town in southern Vermont. Before we left home, Mama Benchly had received word from her brothers that their father, my grandfather, was most likely on his deathbed. For a few hours, we tossed around the idea of staying home but then decided to leave with the understanding that if anything happened, we would come home right away.

Around 9 p.m. that first night of the retreat, while I was seated at a table joined with others to form a half-circle, the church office phone rang. One sound I can assuredly say is unlike anything I’ve ever heard, is the sound of a phone ringing in a hollow church on a quiet, small-town Friday evening. It’s so loud, you almost expect it to be God. The person who answered the phone said it was for Papa Benchly and in that split second, I knew who was on the other end of the phone and why. And to this day, I can still vividly recall Papa Benchly’s calm, yet pained expression as he passed by me and my sister on his way to answer the phone; and Sister #2’s fearful and sad expression, too; and I can still feel in my stomach the feeling of anxious dread I felt that night. It’s a feeling that accompanies any inevitable news of death, and it’s a feeling I felt when I woke this morning.

I first met Hypothetical on a Saturday morning in February when Montana Girl and I ventured into a Main Street consignment shop called Pam’s Place. The three of us were the only customers in the store that hour. Montana Girl took me there to search for her Mardi Gras parade costume; I went on the off chance I would find a cool outfit for an upcoming date with Peeps.

After a few short minutes of browsing through a depressingly small men’s section, my “Cute Girl Radar” sent urgent signals to my attention and moved me into a position where I could see Hypothetical. As Sarah the L and I like to say, she was “wife cute” (aka, on a strictly superficial level, someone I’d feel comfortable waking up next to for the rest of my life). She was wearing jeans and a grey, knee-length, pea-coat-like winter jacket, and her hair and make-up suggested she was in control of her life. She overheard my conversation with Montana Girl and took the opportunity to point out leather pants that might work with the parade outfit. While she paid for her clothes and as she left the store, I made a point of remembering her name; I can’t explain why except to say I felt like I’d be using it again someday. And I did.

In early March, the determined folks in the world of fate pushed Hypothetical into my life again and this time, I didn’t let her go. What followed were intense dreams and promises and kisses and smiles and text messages and hopes and hugs and cuddling and passion all rolled up into one big unhealthy fast start. And slowly, but surely, as is often the case when you mix ingredients out of order or too quickly, the flimsy foundation we had built began to crumble as we silently realized that our true personalities, though both drenched in heartfelt sincerity, were not a perfect match for one another. The death of us was inevitable and for the best, and yet I couldn’t help but fear it.

This morning, Hypothetical made official what we had unofficially felt in our hearts for awhile. And as I sit here pondering all the wonderful memories I’ll have of Hypothetical and succumbing to the tears that accompany the painful memories I won’t be able to ignore, I’m reminded of a conversation CP, Sarah the L, and I had about the superpowers we would each choose to possess if given the chance. Sarah said she would be Super Leap-Tall-Buildings-In-A-Single-Bound Lesbo-Loving Telepathic Chick, thus giving her the power to read the minds of lesbian, Empire State Building sightseers. CP said she wanted to be Super Flying Leper-Healing Invisible Woman, allowing her the opportunity to heal people and to be invisible and fly away if “the lepers got out of control.” I said I wanted to be Do-Over Man, not to be confused with Dover Man, the invincible capital of Delaware! I would have the ability to go back in time to correct my mistakes.

And so, as I file this Hypothetical chapter away, I can’t help but wonder one last hypothetical question. What if I never saw Hypothetical after Pam’s Place? What if I could go back in time to make it so our story ended the way it began?: Hypothetical left Pam’s Place. Montana Girl purchased the leather pants, I resisted the temptation to buy a cheap wine rack I didn’t need, and we left the store, heading up Main Street. On our walk to the Church Street Marketplace, Montana Girl turned to me and said, “where to next?”

Anyone who knows anything about me understands that very few words come out of my mouth without careful consideration for how they convey some sort of ironic or genuinely meaningful symbolism. Sometimes it’s blunt, like my “Hypothetically…” posting last month, and sometimes it’s subtle, like the last paragraph in each section of my “Song of My Anecdotal Self, Volume II” posting last week. So it will come as a shock to most all of you when I end this posting in a tone lacking any subtle symbolism:

Hypothetical’s departure from my life hurts like hell. I want the pain to go away and I don’t think it will for awhile. But, if given the chance to go back in time to take away this pain, if I could be Do-Over Man for one day, I wouldn’t trade away one star-crossed minute with her for anything. She made me smile more than most. And I’m thankful for her.

Song of My Anecdotal Self, Volume 2: My Juxtapositional Life

Part 1.
For the next few weeks, the Loser Cruiser will be driven by a substitute driver while its regular driver, Deane, visits with his son who is on leave from the military. I don’t know the new driver’s name but she seems nice and unlike the regular Friday morning driver Steve, she actually knows how to drive a big bus and how to drive on the highway.

Tuesday morning, I was the lone passenger as we departed the B’town bus station. Monday morning, the driver had to ask where to make one of the turns but by Tuesday, having memorized the route completely, her only question was whether or not to stop to pick up a man standing at a bus stop on the side of the road. Without hesitation, I said, “no, he’s waiting for another bus. Deane always waves to him as we pass him.” I was alarmed at how familiar I’ve become with the route and routine.

A few minutes later, I instructed the driver to stop for the silver-haired Daddy Sutherland standing on the side of the road nowhere near a bus stop. I’m not particularly fond of this man, a state senator, but I figured it was my civil responsibility to make sure he made it to work on time. Not coincidentally, I was reminded of a recent conversation I overheard him having with another state senator in which he said, “sometimes you have to vote for the things you disagree with in order to make sure the ones you really want pass.”

As the bus made its way onto the highway and its patrons cozied into their seats for their morning nap or read, I wondered what it must feel like to be a substitute driver. For all I know, she’s only been hired until Deane returns in which case, what must it feel like to do a job efficiently while lacking any job security whatsoever and never knowing if the seat you’re sitting in is a temporary or a permanent one? And if you were worried you were only in a temporary job, would you have it in you to do the job well?

Part 2.
Wednesday was Othello’s 4th birthday. To accommodate everyone’s schedules (including my own), I scheduled a birthday party for Tuesday night. After spending the first half hour eating and talking and letting Othello get used to so many people in the apartment, my mother, Sarah the L, Smoochie Poo, Jay Peak, CAT, Hypothetical, Montana Girl, Surfboard Guy, and I quietly sang happy birthday to the kitty while Smoochie Poo carried into the room a food dish with Fancy Feast and a lit candle in it.

After Othello ate a little of his birthday “cake” and while he went to the bathroom 5 or 6 times (he’s a nervous kitty and his bladder goes crazy whenever he’s nervous), I opened his presents for him. Considering that Othello was able to cope with an apartment full of people and then he spent most of the night playing with his new toys, I think it’s safe to say the party was a success.

Afterwards, after most everyone had left, I sat there with Sarah the L and Smoochie Poo, playing catch up for all the time we’ve lost now that Sarah no longer works with me. At one point, she asked me if I would be willing to watch her kitty for a day or two this weekend while she and Smoochie traveled to Connecticut. Considering I had no way of getting to her apartment, I had to regretfully decline. This prompted Sarah to wonder if her indoor kitty would be OK alone for two days. I reminded her of what I had heard about cats: most cats, after being left alone 2-3 days, believe their food supply has been cut off and start looking for a new home. So while her kitty wouldn’t be able to escape, she would most certainly greet Sarah’s return with a very cold shoulder.

Part 3.
This next part, I’m surprised to say, I’m finding incredibly difficult to write. Last night, as is always the case on the second Wednesday of every month, was Trivia Night. My team, the Hotties, gathered for yet another attempt at the Trivia Crown. Our team consisted of myself, CP, CP’s mother, CP’s brother and his girlfriend. Sadly, Sarah the L was not in attendance. The night started without fanfare as we barely found an open table at which to sit. We were surrounded by obnoxiously drunk legislators and for a brief moment, I considered packing it in and calling it a night. But then…

After the first three rounds, One Flew Over the Hotties Nest (our name for the night) found itself alone atop the leader board with a perfect score. Only after the next two rounds when, unlike past Trivia Nights, we found ourselves just one point out of first place, did we begin to think something different was happening. And even then, we were prepared to lose. You see, we Hotties are accustomed to losing. We’re like Cubs’ fans and our motto has always echoed what a summer beer league softball coach once told my team: “It’s not whether you win or lose, it’s HOW you lose that matters.”

I’ve spent the last three years of my Trivia Night life crafting email invitations and recaps detailing every which possible way we Hotties could lose. And this is why I’m having trouble finding the right words to say. How do you say “we won”? After so many times trying and failing, after so many close calls and near misses, after so many nights when you dared fate by trying to glimpse into your glorious future, after so many heart-breaking finishes, how do you say you won? I think I’m unable to find the right words because I’m in shock and I’m having trouble accepting the reality. I expect to wake from this dream. But man, oh man, what a sweet dream it is.

Hello, darkness, my old friend

11:30 a.m.
I’m at work right now and I can’t concentrate, which, in all honesty, is nothing new. But this time, I have a good excuse: it’s currently snowing the absolutely largest snowflakes I have ever seen in my life. This is how it’s supposed to look on Christmas and yet, 12 days before Christmas as I sit in my dusty cubicle staring outside the nearby window, I fear I’ll never see snow as gorgeous as the snow falling right now.

12:25 p.m.
I just returned from my daily walk with CP. Some highlights:

1. As of the completion of this walk, CP and I remain tied in the competition for the BSA title (Best Snowball Aim). In the first throw, she nailed the tree dead on while I missed wide left. In the second throw, I lofted a beautifully-made, lightweight, super-gripper snowball into a narrow tree 75 feet away and CP followed off with a nervously-thrown snowball that fell well short of the target. Her performance adds fuel to the critics’ speculation that she can’t handle the pressure. We’ll see how well she handles herself in the second round.

2. A few minutes later, CP took out her BSA frustrations by “accidentally” nailing me in the crotch with a snowball.

3. We whistled, hummed, and clapped our way through Sleigh Ride. Much fun was had by all.

4. I tried to no avail to describe my favorite holiday commercial: the Old Navy Christmas carolers and, specifically, the cute “By the way (point point), your mom says hi (wave, wave, wave)!” girl. CP wasn’t impressed.

1:45 p.m.
I just returned from a quick conversation with Sarah the L at her desk. Here’s how the conversation played out:

Mr. Benchly – Should I call the Enterprise woman? Or has too much time passed?
Sarah the L – I don’t know. Has too much time passed? You could always say, “I tried calling you Friday but you weren’t in the office.”
Mr. Benchly – I could. But has the moment passed? (And then, quoting a song from the Broadway play Into the Woods…) “This was just a moment in the woods…may I rent your car?”

That last joke will only be funny to those who realize that the original quote was “This was just a moment in the woods…may I kiss you?”

What we were discussing was the woman from whom I rented a car following Inga’s accident. I sensed a vibe there and then later in the day, she called me for a “Courtesy Customer Check Up.” I’ve rented cars 5 or 6 times in my life and never once have they called to check up on me. Maybe this is a Vermont thing (most likely) but MAYBE the woman really was giving me a vibe and she wanted to talk to me again. Taking a risk, I called her back to ask her out but she had left for the day. And now that I’ve had the weekend to psych myself out, I’m hesitant to call her again. Why am I so afraid? What’s the big deal about potential rejection anyway?

2:10 p.m.
The workplace is filled with electricity right now at the realization that the Parking Lot Extramarital Affair Couple has returned to action after a month-long absence. I can hardly control myself at the sight of these two lovebirds. For the greater part of the summer, their semi-daily encounters in our parking lot were my entertainment. And then, as quickly as they appeared, they were gone. Did they break things off? Did they go on vacations with their respective families and spouses? Did one of their spouses find out and commit a crime of passion? We’ll never know. But now, at least, they’ve returned for our viewing pleasure and all is right in the world again.

3:38 p.m.
Fighting off the temptation to not call the Enterprise Woman thanks to a newfound courage, I sat in my car and dialed the number, waited impatiently as the phone rang and said “Can I speak to Enterprise Woman?” when Enterprise Man said “This is Enterprise Man, how may I help you?” The following is the conversation that, um, followed:

Enterprise Man – She’s not in the office. Is there anything I can do for you?
Me (thinking “Yes! Tell me if she’s interested in me!!!!!!”) – Can I leave a message for her?
Enterprise Man (shuffling some papers) – Yes. Go ahead…
Me (thinking “I think I love her, so what am I so afraid of?”) – Can you please tell her Mr. Benchly called? My number is blah blah blah – blah blah blah blah.
Enterprise Man (obviously annoyed) – Sure thing. I’ll pass that on.
Me – Thanks.

3:43 p.m.
After notifying Sarah the L of my brave attempt at courting, I returned to my desk to find my phone blinking the “1 Missed Phone Call” message!!!! I don’t recognize the number and can only assume that Enterprise Woman was given the message and returned the phone call. Now I sit here waiting impatiently for her to call back.

4:51 p.m.
Taking fate by the ears one last time, I called Enterprise Woman and miraculously, she answered. I said everything I rehearsed for the last 3 days and sank to a new low emotional level beneath the ground but just above hell when Enterprise Woman said, “I can’t believe you called. I’m so flattered! But I have to decline because I have a boyfriend.” And so my depressing day ends with me making her day. So it goes.

Dates, Hotties, and Homosexuality

I went on a first date last night. And that’s all I’m going to say. You see, I’m superstitious about dates and talking about them. I don’t like telling people about a first or second or third date for the same reason women don’t like to talk about their pregnancies in the first trimester. I want to make sure it STICKS before I talk about it. I don’t want to get dumped on my ass after the second or third date and have to deal with the misery of rejection AND the misery of having to talk about the rejection with my friends for the next week. I suppose I do this for the same reason people don’t introduce girlfriends/boyfriends to their family until all matters of the relationship have been resolved. I once introduced a new girlfriend to my family and passed her off as the greatest thing since the Easy Bake Oven and then suffered the embarrassment and shame of getting dumped a few weeks later. Who wants that?

In other news, tonight will mark the triumphant return of The Hotties at Trivia Night!!! Although it has yet to be approved by the Hottie majority, I think it’s safe to say our team name tonight will be:

“There’s No Joy in Hottieville, the Mighty Kerry Has Struck Out.”

Tonight’s team will most likely consist of myself, CP (aka, Hottie #5), CP’s Brother (aka, Hottie #6), and their mother (aka, Honorary Hottie C). Evidently, CP’s Brother has invited a coworker to attend and said coworker once worked in a record store so if she comes, and I’ve accurately described her work experience, we could very likely kick some serious Trivia arse in the Music Round. Wish us luck!

Finally, I wrote a poem a few years ago inspired by a Vermont gubernatorial race between Howard Dean and Ruth Dwyer. Ruth Dwyer basically ran on the “Take Back Vermont” platform that said the state government had gone too far with its universal state education property tax as well as its Civil Union law. Her campaign essentially fed off the blatant old-school hatred toward homosexuals in an attempt to remove from office the man who signed the Civil Union law. In response, I did the only powerful thing I felt I could: I wrote. And 4 years later, the poem I wrote to her can now be appropriately addressed to our president-elect who, in the name of hatred, is determined to proudly discriminate against homosexuals. And so, in response to his views, I feel compelled to share this poem with you…

To President Bush:
Dressed in false truths, a devil in disguise
with tears of hatred pouring from your eyes,
you preach the Word. You’ve come to dispel
the “sin,” the love, the “weak and unwise”
and with promises of the eternal prize
you cast out your Biblical spell
coated with sugar-stained lies.
I shall enjoy watching your demise
while sitting in the throne from which you fell
perched high above in the heavenly skies
with the “sinners,” the lovers, the strong, and the wise
far from the grave you’ve dug in hell.

© 2004 Mr. Benchly

Song of My Anecdotal Self, Volume 1

– Last night, I took part in what has become sort of a family tradition: I hung out at my parents’ house waiting for trick-or-treaters to stop by, ate more candy than we passed out, and smiled uncontrollably at the sight of two of my nieces dressed up in their costumes. This year, Niece #1 was Belle and Niece #2 was Little Red Riding Hood. Niece #3 was in her home near Albany, celebrating the holiday dressed up as Blue. And, proving yet again the theory that small children will never ever understand sarcasm, I jokingly told Niece #2 that I had eaten her candy and watched in horror as she started bawling her eyes out. I’m going to hell.

– I went for my semi-daily walk with CP today. Typically, we walk up a very steep hill on a road near our company, and then turn around and come back. Today, while walking up the hill, we heard rustling in the woods to our right. CP immediately put me between her and the woods and we looked up to see a pair of eyes staring at us. After a few seconds, we realized we were staring at not one, but two deer who were probably as scared as we had been a moments earlier. After staring us down for a few seconds, they hopped away and disappeared into the woods.

– The Great Kitty Trial Run of October 2004 has officially ended! After a few kitty disputes coming nowhere near “Cat Fight” status, after Othello showed signs that he had settled into the apartment enough so that he wouldn’t be afraid to come out of my room, and after it was decided by The Virgin Mary and I that while the cats may never like each other, they most certainly will be able to coexist, I decided to officially adopt Othello. So let it be known that on Halloween of 2004, I adopted Othello, an all black cat born on Friday the 13th (4/13/01). Congratulations may be sent to my attention in the form of check or money order.

– Tomorrow, as I’m sure all of you know, is Election Day and I don’t think it’s an overstatement when I say that it will be the most important day of our lives thus far. Tomorrow is our opportunity to unite as one voice and declare to our country and to the world that we do not stand for narrow-mindedness, or hatred, or bigotry, or unjust wars in a society where the rich get richer and the poor die on the front lines. Tomorrow is our opportunity to sound our barbaric yawp over the rooftops of the world and slowly, morally, and peacefully heal the wounds on which our current president has continued to gnaw. Please exercise your right tomorrow and please think before you do. When we ultimately pass this world on to our nieces and nephews and sons and daughters, I want to be proud of the world we’re giving them.