The last time this sociopathic, narcissistic, conman was elected to office over a highly qualified woman candidate, I was still a working columnist. Not an online blogger, or social media influencer, but a real, bonafide columnist in print newspapers. Remember those? There was a time (27 years, actually) that I was paid to express my opinion. Additionally, that opinion had to pass professional editorial muster before it could be shared with the public. Now, anybody with an iPhone and a TikTok profile can get 1,000 likes for their random, unresearched, unsubstantiated opinion. Particularly if accompanied by a pouting selfie.

In my columnist days, when the unthinkable happened in the 2016 and the joke candidate was suddenly no laughing matter anymore, I set out to burn it to the ground in my little thousand-word space, whenever and wherever I could. I made it a personal goal to use words like machetes, and believe me, there would be blood. Sometimes carnage. In my little corner of the newsprint world, I could shout the truth as I saw it, and if someone didn’t like it — oh well. Go read something else more suited to you. The sports page maybe. Or classified ads. And should someone try to tangle with me, I made sure they’d think about that twice the next time they wanted to catch a tiger by the tail. Bring it on, bitches. I got all the ink and newsprint in the world.

It was good being Queen.

And then things changed.

In 2017, a new and very young publisher came on board, buying out the old one. His “My whim is your command” temperament clashed with my 27 years of experience as the managing editor of a community newspaper in contrast to his zero years of doing the same. To me, our newspaper was the heart and soul of our community, and  for 135 years, the keeper of all our local history. It mattered deeply to me. To him, it was a mere plaything. However, he owned that plaything. This was a battle I couldn’t win. Furthermore, I wasn’t about to participate in the systematic destruction of our beloved, award-winning newspaper.

One of the last straws in this rapidly declining situation was an edict that I would restrict my column topics to only local issues, and specifically, no more columns on national politics, and even more specifically, nothing about Trump.

Well, excuse fucking me, but I don’t think so, Bucky.

I had been writing columns almost as long as he’d been alive, in multiple publications, at one point in national syndication, with so many state and national awards for my column under my belt, I actually lost track. Nobody tells me what to write, or not to write. My response to his command was to promptly write another blistering column about the orange pustule, and to plan my exit strategy.

You may be wondering why he didn’t fire me on the spot. Simple. As managing editor, I was responsible for the entire content of that newspaper — text and photos — except for  the ads and the former publisher’s column. If it appeared in print, I either wrote it or supervised the person who did, and if written elsewhere, decided whether it would see ink or not. I edited every single thing that was printed, designed most of the pages before they went to press, and supervised the staff who designed the pages I didn’t. I did the bulk of the work, from beginning to end. And work isn’t a lot of fun. Playthings are supposed to be fun. Instead of taking over that job himself, he set out to make my life there as miserable as possible. Turns out, he was quite skilled at that. I resigned in 2018, a few weeks after writing that last Trump column.

After resigning, I brushed my hands of print journalism, settled into a kinder, gentler Pagan perspective, and turned my focus to my massage practice. I also launched into a new career: writing books. To date, I’ve had three published, and am working on the fourth. I also have a couple translations of my books out there in Italian and Spanish. Not too shabby. And to be honest, I wouldn’t have written one of them had I not left print journalism. I supposed I should thank my former boss for that, but I’m just not that big of a person.

Besides letting my career path take a new course, I made a conscious effort to soften my edges, retract my claws, and make a psychological paradigm shirt towards becoming the kind of person, teacher, and author I wanted to be, rather than a hellcat living with her fists up and claws out 24-7, ready to make mincemeat of the next person or issue that sorely had it coming.

This is all rancid water under the bridge, and old history. So, why bring it up now? Because seeing that entitled, shameless, soulless conman defeat an entirely more qualified, experienced, dedicated woman simply because he can has triggered my inner hellcat big time. She’s furious. Clawing at the edges of my psyche. Demanding that we brandish our words with lethal force just like we did the last time this hellacious nightmare occurred. She’s roaring to be set free and burn it all to the ground, just for old time’s sake. However, if I let her out, I may not be able to get her back into the cage again.

I hear you, Hellcat. I acknowledge you. But let’s stop and consider the facts. Did all the verbal carnage we indulged in for all those years ever actually change anything? Nope. If it did, Hillary Clinton would have become our first woman President in 2016. And, every single other thing that happened after that would be different, up to and including the reign of King Man-Baby. With all that fur flying… was it really worth it? Time and distance makes me wonder. So, for now, I just can’t let you loose. But I can hear you roar.