I, um, am starting to panic. In the pit of my stomach, I have a ball of fear. I’m pretty sure it’s screaming, “HE CANT WIN.”

But of course, if you were part of the 2016 election, your PTSD has kicked in by now, and you know that he can win. He can cheat, and he can win. He’s good at it. Talented. And let me just say right here, I don’t know what I’ll do if he wins. I. DO. NOT. KNOW. WHAT. I’LL. DO.

This election season has been four years long. So many of us have struggled with the kind of president and person Trump is. I’m telling you the truth when I say this is not Republican vs. Democrat. Trump is a third party candidate. He does not resemble the principled Republicans of yore. In the least. This is a man (and it really is hard to call him that, but for lack of a better choice) who does not care about our country. People are dying of Covid left and right, that red monster is spiking again, tearing across the U.S. like the two candidates themselves. And Trump has declared that he’s actually ended the pandemic in his brag sheet of accomplishments. THIS IS JUST NOT TRUE. I mean, gaslight, much? People are dying. It could happen in your family. It could happen in mine. Hell, it has already happened in mine.

But back to my butterflies, my waking up in the middle of the night wondering how we’ll all survive if the worst thing of all happens and Trump, the non-science believing, women-hating, xenophobic, hater of the LGBQT community, lover of white supremacists and those good folks from QAnon, non-believer in the Black Lives Matter movement, ripper of immigrant children from their parents (more than 500 of who, criminally, cannot be found), gets four more years. If that happens, I will be hard pressed to stay in this country and watch it burn to the ground.

There is a nice town in Italy, near Sicily that’s selling houses in need of love for $1. Who’s with me?

Gratitude for those of you who’ve voted, worked the phones, written postcards and letters and texted til your fingers were numb. I love you. You, you are the people who give me hope. You are my people.

Sweet baby Jesus, let’s go, Joe!

Gratitude, oh gratitude, where the fuck art thou, dear gratitude? Well, that made Shakespeare shiver. It’s a tense time here at the ranch, meaning everywhere, all the time, in the good ol’ USA. We are not only smack in the middle of fall, that season you want to enjoy (with its kaleidoscope of colors dancing on trees and the autumn sun’s angle providing light that should be an Instagram filter), but you can’t, on account of the winter of our discontent (so literary today) is burning out our eyeballs. How will we, who were not smart enough to settle in a warm climate, sequester ourselves for an entire winter without seeing others? How will we not, if only in our minds, prevent ourselves from making an elaborate plan to murder those we are in quarantine with (calm down, I would never, but think about it, well yeah), eat carbs until we burst, forget all social norms, and ignore that leggings are not, indeed pants. Beats me.

Of course, that is the secondary worry that’s scaring away my usual ability to embrace gratitude like a long lost war hero back and unharmed. Three weeks from today, well, actually today, we are having an election for the president of these here unUnited States. Maybe you’ve heard. It is the election of a lifetime. It is an election that could change the very lives we live. And if it goes the wrong way, and I say that because there is only one real way that this thing can go that will be right, we are gonna be in hella bad shape. The pandemic is going to look like a fruity cocktail with a umbrella. And hey, I say that having lost my father-in-law to it, so you know, not lightly.

The Cuckoo for Coco Puffs Pandemic-defying, new cover girl for Jergens self-tanner current president is now spewing lies like a lawn mower spits out grass from it’s little side thingy (once my mom was in its wake and some piece of metal spit itself right into her ankle, but that’s a story for another day). He has taken his unmasked, unsocially distanced lie machine on the road to try and continue his quest to be the next Hitler/Mussolini/Superman-gone-bad.

For me and so many people I know, this is a time when gratitude seems to be slippery and elusive, a toddler in the bathtub, a dog who escapes his leash, a noodle who just can’t stay on a chopstick. The abject fear of another four years of Agent Orange is too much to bear. And we know that any gloves of decency or integrity that Don the Con may have ever worn are off and in the garbage. He will be a leader from hell.

And so, while I’ve come to this blog multiple times, and written my gratitude, I have not posted them because nothing seems as important as simply acknowledging the fear and paralysis of this moment. While I am cautiously terrified to believe that Biden Harris can win this thing, I am also too aware that a narcissist the likes of our president can and will pull out every maneuver to invalidate a Democratic win. He will encourage violence, and use all of his presidenty tricks to hide the truth.

Which is why, you have to vote. No matter what, where, who or how, you need to cast your ballot. If you think your one little vote doesn’t matter, think of Donald’s orange face with a little mustache above his lip, because he’s coming for you–your healthcare, your rights, your planet and so much more. No matter how long I have to wait, no matter what I might be up against, I will get myself to the polls and make sure my voice is heard.

Please do what you can, in the next three weeks to encourage everyone you know and those you don’t know (Check out Vote Forward) to vote. This is it. The gratitude I will feel if Biden Harris win this thing will only be topped if we can go Blue all the way up and down the ticket. Biden may not be your perfect candidate, but consider the alternative and his wake of truly heinous acts for comparison. Vote. There are three weeks left. Let’s do this.