Posting through it, folks.

This week has been incredibly grim. There is no corner of our country that isn’t being set on fire. Innocence will no longer save you, better to be blatantly sinning and winning. I wish I had a gun to hold close to warm my body, which is growing cold from all of the fear I’m accumulating. My taxes will now be spent on Christian private schools for children named Braylynn and Jaxson so that they can learn just enough to get into Liberty University and start their grifter journey. Explore the wide variety of options: podcast host, professional patriot, crypto millionaire, ChristianTok influencer, ambassador to Germany, undersecretary of book burning. The more ambitious student can be all of these at once.

I’ve been so stressed that binge-watching The Pitt, perhaps one of the most realistically stressful shows in the history of television, has been *calming.* So much so that I’m forcing my husband to rewatch it with me. I think it’s the resolve with which Dr. Robby navigates one of the worst days of his life that fascinates me. It’s what we’re all doing these days, and every day seems worse than the last. And yet I persist.

I guess it’s Easter weekend. Who knows anymore. What is time. What is redemption. What is renewal. I’m cave-pilled. I’m not coming out, reborn. Enjoy your Easter hams, though.