Written in response (then stuffed in a bottle floating down the Thames):
I'll be doing well when we pass 200 registrations [that's the minimum for making a good living: mortgage paid, taxes paid, utilities paid, and meals out].
At 200 registrations, I'll lift myself out of bed and give myself "the daily talking to." Like I was my own child; with a pillow crushed over my head. It's pathetic.
The person weeding my garden right now could run for governor: she's that smart, savvy, informed; any intelligent voter would say YES! ... and she'd do far more good than the current scarecrow in power. And yet here she is, on this land, digging weeds, inviting ticks to run up her legs....
I'm no longer sure: Am I ready to explode ~ or implode ~ or just -plode.
Is hope just for fools like you and me? Simone didn't subscribe to my optimism. She'd fight like hell. She didn't hope. She didn't trust "We, the people...."
And now I see she was SO right re: gender rights in America.