My mom found a collection of perhaps every report card I ever had. My being not a total annoyance to have in class (ike Trump probably was) seemed to be one of the themes. If if ever write a memoir, or a biography is written by someone willing to tackle my absolutely ridiculous life story, they should call it Phoebe is a Pleasant Girl.
In other news, I dreamed I was trying so hard to declutter my house that I tore out sections of my high school yearbook that didn’t bring me joy. I was immediately remorseful and distressed afterwards! I woke up so happy and relieved that it was, (somewhere around here) still intact!
In other news, I will canvass on foot again today. And it’s the very last day to obsessively scroll the polls. Don’t Betray me, Pennsylvania. My girlfriend lives in an area that she calls Pennsyltucky. All her friends are Trumpers and won’t listen to a word she says. What will his cult do when he’s gone?
Phoebe Wilcox, Writing Like the Deadline is Death 