The night I read Andrew Sullivan's famous Donald Trump essay in May, I remember not being able to sleep, it was so disturbing. I turned over and over in my mind how I could take matters into my own hands and personally bring down Trump.
I thought the answer could be somehow messing up his hair and making him look even more ridiculous and impotent, but then that happened — to no end, unfortunately.
The thing I worried about all summer is actually here: Donald Trump is president. I wasn't sure that I would march on Saturday: for awhile I wondered if it was a march against democracy, because I thought the side of reason had lost and we just had to live it (at least I thought that before the Russian revelations).
Of course, that's not what the march was about at all. My best friend convinced me of that, and that graceless Inauguration speech made it even more clear. The thing I can't get over about Saturday in DC beyond the sea of humanity (we were so packed in at one point we could barely move), was that the marchers were everyday people, people who were young and old and everything in between. Women who love their country and deserve better. They've had enough of Trump's egotism and crassness and lunacy. These were people who, like me, were afraid of what's next.
I have to say, I'm confused by headlines like "Women's March movement: What's next and can the momentum last?” I stood by the Trump Hotel on Saturday and watched a never-ending stream of marchers walk toward the White House, carrying signs that were more clever than anything Trump has ever said or tweeted in his life. Then I went home and my blood boiled over that pathetic excuse of a press conference. My only thought, then and now, is that this march is clearly just the beginning.