I realize that grumbling over losing the swimming pool lottery at the Y is rarely the stuff from which epics are made. Even Pope would have a hard time coming up with something, and he wrote the DUNCIAD and the Rape of the Lock. He would have a good time with Trump--if he got all that mileage out of Colley Cibber, well, T-rump would be a t-riumph. The Trumpiad? They're definitely a bunch of schemers out of Italian opera--the Borgia's were the Walton's by comparison. January 20 will be the mad scene from Lucia Lammermoor. Trump barricading himself on the balustrade. Trump limping off into exile, surrounded by his Wormtongue, Jared. Still, like Saruman, he is capable of doing spiteful evil. Like Saruman, thinking he could go into the Shire--and then,like Saruman, being kicked out of the Shire (I reference the article about Mir-a-lago cannot be used as a residence for over 21 days/year. I wonder if Jared, like his predecessor worm, will rise up and attempt to assassinate him).
Right now, his small evils--mocking the stimulus package, however righteous his criticism. He wants the US to be thrown into the most ultimate chaos before Biden. Trump believes only he can bring order--again--like Hitler. Hitler brought order---but Hitler didn't create the chaos that preceded it.
The White House will undergo "deep cleansing" before the Biden's come in. Just like the palace of the edentulous dotard Theoden of Rohan after Wormtongue threw in his lot with Saruman. And Wormtongue was killed by Saruman. Beware Jared, who actually married Theoden's daughter.
That is--if we still exist. Trump might just as well decide that economic chaos is insufficient and he will take the whole country down with him. He has his private militias (Nazi's) and they may well lay siege to Washington. He may decide to mar the inaugaration with a blood bath--because he believes there are some very fine Nazi's out there--well, of course, if they support him, they must be very fine people by definition.
So, picayune as it may be, it is so depressing going swimming. I look at everyone doing laps in their lane, with little interpersonal communication. Grimness. I look at the barred hot tub area and would weep (well, I actually do). I want, I want, and all there are shaming Karen's, ridiculing one.
I feel so lonely. I was alone for Thanksgiving. Alone for Chanukah. I will be alone for Christmas and New Year's Eve. Christmas Day and New Year's Day I will assemble take-away lunches for the homeless, most of whom are edentulous lunatics.
And my conversations , when they do occur, are hardly uplifting. All of us are single women, living by ourselves, wondering what will happen if we die alone in our apartments. How long will it take our decaying bodies to be found? We will find us? Elfie, who lives on a tertiary road out in Woodstock, wins, of course because how many weeks will it take before someone makes their way up the mountain and why would they?
That is the reason why I go to bed fully clothed--I wear pajamas, a shirt, and full underwear. Somehow, even though I shouldn't care, it bothers me that I would be found naked. I have a drawerful of pretty underwear--I don't want people to ever think me shabby or pitiful, although I hardly imagine some sort of Gatsby-esque scene, where the vapid social climbers paw through my drawers, sighing, how pretty.
I realize it is a small, petty nit to grumble about the swimming pool lottery. But it is my whole world.