I feel no need to wax poetic in an introduction this week. It’s Wednesday, November 6th. I went to bed the night before — Election Night — quickly checking the New York Time’s “Presidential Forecast Needle” website. It showed Donald Trump with a 91% chance of winning. Thus began the first stage of grief, denial. 

I told myself it was merely the red mirage I’d been instructed to ignore by every left-leaning pundit under God’s green airwaves. As I drifted off to sleep, I nervously told myself I’d awaken to what I expected to occur all along: no definitive answers on who won the election. Instead, my second alarm blared, I swiped it off, and saw the sea of notification icons awaiting me. The first one I opened was from my wife. “WHAT, and I cannot stress this enough, IN THE ACTUAL FUCK HAPPENED?”

My mornings are not my own. I am the waker-of-children, the maker-of-lunch-for-my-picky-6-year-old dude, the dresser and hair-detangler of my almost 3-year old princess. Jelly and graham cracker sandwiches made, adorably fluffy purple hoodie adorned, and backpacks loaded… I carted my kiddos off to school. I flipped on CNN to hear professional Cheeto-licker Scott Jennings do his best to stifle his glee as he told another panelist to apologize for insinuating those who cheered for Donald Trump were nazi-sympathizers. It took genuine forethought about the cost of repair that prevented me from slamming my fist into my radio “off” button. I guess this meant I was now entering anger. 

After her whopping 90 minutes of pre-pre-school, I pick up my daughter and drop her at our sitter’s house. I return to an empty, silent house. I have work to do, but I’m not prepared to dive into designing powerpoints or finishing up a marketing plan. Instead I stare a hole into the electoral map. I read, and reread where it details how many votes are in, and how many are left to count. I scan the front pages of CNN and MSNBC for glimmers of hope — that there might be some grand scheme being investigated, or miscounts. I allow my mind to wander to the possibility that Kamala Harris takes a page from Trump’s book and declares the fix was in, and that she’ll fight the outcome. And it hits me like a freight train. I’m bargaining.

What comes next is where I’m swimming as I write this piece, depression. I think of all the literal and figurative threats Donald Trump laid out in his campaign. I think about the very real possibility that millions of immigrants will be rounded up, encamped, and forcefully removed from our country. I think about the court cases that will be immediately dropped. I think about the near-future where imposed tariffs elevate the price on things I regularly purchase, and ask openly will I be able to afford them. Then I think about the world at large. Putin will have Ukraine handed to him on a platter as US-backing is reduced at Putin’s will. I think about the blank check being handed to Israel to further the atrocities they waylay — forcing me to either side with violence I don’t believe in, or seemingly flagellate for daring to oppose what’s being done. I think about the very real potential of the United States removing itself from global treaties and conferences in the name of America-First ideology. I think about my children’s education — and how Christian ideals may be thrust upon them in the removal of specific books or topics of discussion in the classroom. I think about my gay and trans friends who now feel they are in literal danger. I think about women I don’t know now fearing that they no longer have the right to their own body. I think about the endless line of sycophants now empowered to not only gloat but see their vile ideals spread with glee because at the end of the day they won. 

I’ve seen posts of friends of mine who have already reached acceptance. They speak about fighting harder against the darkness. They cling to the ideal that Trump winning removes nothing from their personal power to congregate, love, and give love. They heap charges to everyone to not give up or give in — that this outcome should only force us to dig deeper. Pundits on CNN with their hats-in-hands are now speaking about going back to the drawing board to figure out how to regain power in 2 or 4 years. I’ve no doubt that right now the writers rooms of Jimmy Kimmel, John Stewart, Seth Myers, Steven Colbert, and John Oliver are all attempting to write monologues that will somehow offer sentiments of hope (while they all secretly sigh in relief knowing that anti-Trump rhetoric will keep their jobs in tact for the time being). The thing is? I’m not there yet. I don’t want to be.

Because I keep cycling and recycling through these stages. Every pregnant pause throughout my day, such as it’s been, is filled with a conspiracy theory or what-if pipedream. It’s then crushed under the weight of seeing another news outlet deal its own deathblow. And as the dust settles, I think of yet-another part of our world (healthcare, regulatory policy, or the literal safety of someone like Adam Schiff) and I fall back into a black hole of resentment, worry, and despondency. 

I tell myself to buck up. Unshaven Comics is on the verge of releasing its first video game. We have potential huge deals on deck in the coming weeks and months. We were accepted to our first show in New Orleans in January of 2025. I’ve recently been hired at a new company for my day job — offering me better money, benefits, and responsibilities I’ve worked 2 decades to earn. My children are safe and happy. I still drive a Deadpool-red Honda Odyssey. All that and Chicken McNuggets are only a $1 through December 2nd. How the fuck can I be sad with all that on the table?

Pretty easily, actually. Pretty… pretty easily.