When there are nine.

Good morning gorgeous. Close your eyes and take a deep breath with me right now. Hold it. Now let it go. I missed you last week, it's so good to see you.

She was a motherfucking rockstar wasn't she?

It's hard to reflect on someone's greatness when the gravity of the news is so heavy. It pulls you down with it until you're lying cheek-down on the floor wondering how you spent a whole quarantine without dusting under that chair.

This weekend I found myself sobbing in my bathtub, letting the water circle the drain, unable to get up.

2020 has been an unending sitcom of nightmares. Just when we're getting used to the newest low, we're tossed into a somehow deeper and darker hole.

I'm going through it. I know you are too. I know you're here with me on the fucking floor once again. At least it's nice not to be alone.

This weekend I let myself really feel it.

We have to feel it.

Feeling it means that we're human.

Feeling it means we give a shit.

But we can't stay in the hole. The hole is dark and cold, and damned uncomfortable. And if we stay in the hole we let the assholes with the shovels win.

Numbness is what they want. They want our exhaustion. Our apathy. They want us weak and beaten down. They want our arguments to come out as whimpers.

Because we're not so scary when we're tired, are we?

Our rage is what frightens them. Our work. Our fight. Remember 2018, when womxn and allies from every corner of the world came out to scream our rage and demand our humanity? When American womxn, especially BIPOC womxn, marched their asses to the polls to hand the Democrats control of Congress?

They heard us then.

The men with the shovels want us to stay in the hole.

So we have to get the fuck up.

Take my hand.