Dear Hillary

Comey had nothing to do with my decision not to vote for you.

There are a lot of reasons I didn’t vote for you – and the FBI investigation is merely one of them.  It’s way down the list of reasons, but yes, it’s there.
And now I’m really glad I didn’t vote for you because, once again, it’s not your fault.  Blaming Comey for your loss is like blaming the beer for getting you drunk.   Again, you refuse to take responsibility.

Four good men died in Benghazi – it wasn’t your fault.

You called half the country deplorable – whose fault was that?

You called everyone who supported Mr. Trump “stupid, uneducated.”

You fed into fear – fears that have no basis in reality.

And you’ve refused to do anything to stop the rioting that’s going on in your name now.


I didn’t vote for you because I refuse to be told I have to vote for someone based only on their sex.  Telling me I should vote for  you because you’re a woman is as sexist as saying I shouldn’t vote for you because you’re a woman.

I didn’t vote for you because you said one thing in public and another in private.  I hate liars.  I hate people who play games.  Enough said

I didn’t vote for you because your ads were the nastiest, and most annoying, I’ve seen in years.   And I’ve seen a few elections come and go

I didn’t vote for you because you claim to be all about the right of women to choose – and you chose to stay with a man who treated you like shit, in public.

I didn’t vote for you – and this is one of the biggest reasons – because I was bullied and picked on and teased all through school, through grade school, and high school, and college, and in some of my earliest jobs.  I was called a lot of names.   I worked hard to get advanced degrees and I have a job I love.  And along you come, calling me deplorable, and calling me racist, and bringing back a lot of bad memories.  Your supporters – they remind me of those kids on the playground who wouldn’t play with me.  I thought I was past all that.  And here I am, in my 60’s, again being called names.

You should be ashamed.

I just don’t like you.  You remind me of my sisters, the ones who are so nice on the surface and so nasty underneath that facade.
I much prefer “what you see is what you get” to “I’ll tell you what you want to hear.”

And this sore loser thing?  It’s not really making anyone like you more.  Get out there and tell the spoiled brats to go home, to deal with reality, to stop whining.   Then maybe I’ll be able to forgive you, just a little, for calling me names


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