Feeling Blue?

I am addicted to the refresh button. I understand the draw of slot machines.

Tuesday, November 3, 2020, 7 pm: My patient in Australia is having a watch party. Theirs was the last session before I ended my day on Tuesday night. The sun is filtering into their living room as it grows dark like midnight in New York. I will soon fall into bed, tossing and refreshing and doom scrolling. Nothing refreshing about American ambivalence: a train wreck the world watches with macabre fascination.

Wednesday, November 8, 2000, late afternoon IST: My best friend mentions that Gore needs to win for the planet. It is a hot day in Bombay, much like other hot days. I am 18 years old, the legal age to vote.† She says something about a Chad. I don’t who Chad is.

Wednesday, November 4, 2020, 10 pm ET: Georgia can be won by Biden. Georgia, where I danced at with, trans goddesses after a conference. Georgia, where I sobbed uncontrollably in the Civil Rights Center, my body shaking in anger at the insults hurled at “non-violent” protestors. Georgia, where Janelle Monae gave this queer brown girl something to sing about.† Georgia, where I stepped into plantation homes and imagined myself inhabiting the rooms of the enslaved. Georgia, where Spanish moss draped the oaks on a balmy night and I ate fried green tomatoes and got tipsy on honey wine. Georgia, where the ghost of Maceo Snipes† haunts Stacey Abrams. Annie Lee Jones texts me: “Is it possible that it could be that the white Supremist state of Georgia could go BLUE?” I wonder the

same. I refresh again. I used to be good at math. I called it math. Now I need to use the calculator to do simple subtractions. I am magnetized.

Wednesday, November 2, 2004, 6 pm ET: I am 22 and recently graduated with a degree in psychology. I am screaming in m