Tweeted this the other day:

That was ... Thursday? Just two days ago? Wow. Like everything in the Trump era, it seemed like forever. 

Yesterday evening, Friday evening, our ballots finally arrived. I was going to fill mine out with a glass of hopefully celebratory bourbon but instead waited until this morning with a cup of coffee. I remembered Election Night 2016, that horrible evening, when it suddenly seemed clear that Trump would win, and I immediately stopped drinking. I decided I needed to have my wits about me if I was living in a country dumb enough to elect Donald Fucking Trump president of the United States. So I wanted to send him out with that same feeling. This morning, sitting at my desk, The Stranger endorsements up online, and my Covid-era album, George Harrison's “All Things Must Pass,” playing, I had at it. I went federal office first, tackled the rest (maintain ... maintain ... fuck Tim Eyman, man), then walked both my wife's and my ballots over to the nearest ballot drop box—the one at Seattle Central on Broadway. I think I did that a few years ago? Maybe 2014? That one was a weekday evening and no one was around. This was a cool, drizzly Saturday morning, and in the span of two minutes I think I saw a dozen people drop off their ballots. Almost everyone smiling behind their face masks. It was a good feeling. 

Other differences? I added my email address on the back of the envelope in case there were questions. And I kept the “Remove this stub” stub so I can track the ballot and make sure it's counted. I know Washington isn't a focus but I trust nothing about this guy. 

Again, it felt good. Keep it up. Vote. Assume nothing. Seventeen days.

It's not always going to be this gray.