The fires in California have me spiraling, and I don’t even live there. I’m states away, in a completely different climate and time zone, with no connection to anyone in California—yet I’ve somehow appointed myself an honorary worrier-in-chief. The houses, the people, the wildlife—I'm stressed for all of it. Every day, I’m glued to the news, scrolling through articles and videos like a wildfire detective. Did you see that video of the woman who put her china in her pool? Genius. Then there was the house that made it through the fires only to be split in half by the landslide.
The first thing I do when I wake up isn’t even hitting the bathroom—nope, my brain jumps straight to, “Did they get the fires out?”
But, oh, don’t get me started—this compassion comes with a side of sass. Like, who’s at the wheel over there, California? I know, I know, politics. But seriously, this beautiful state is drowning in blue policies, wildfires, and more homeless encampments than solutions. Are people voting for real change, or just playing party color bingo? Imagine hiring someone based on, I don’t know, literally anything other than their ability to do the job. Seems wild, right?
Anyway, I’ll just be here in my safe little bubble, equal parts empathetic and exasperated, hoping California catches a break—and maybe a little common sense while they're at it.
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