Dear Justin, pardon me, Dear Prime Minister,
We don't know each other. I did not vote for you, in fact I voted for no one. I'm fed up with the ambient corruption of politics and, since no party on offer corresponded to my values, I left all the circles on the ballot empty.
I'm an ordinary citizen. I'm 36, almost 37, I've got three kids, a small business, I earn a living, take piano lessons and literature classes and I watch cat videos on Facebook. I write a little, as a hobby. Like right now.
I'm a woman from Québec like thousands of others. On the evening of Oct. 19, I was bottle-feeding my baby and decided to watch the electoral broadcast. Just for fun, because I don't watch that show Yamaska, anyway. I knew you were going to win. Everybody was saying so. Everyone, like all the media, and all of my friends that work in the media. Even my mom, who votes Bloc, said so. That how I knew. A majority, no, but I knew you were about to sit down on the sofa at 24 Sussex.
I don't really know you. I've seen stuff about you in papers and on the Net, but not much more than that. I read part of your program and promises. Not bad, I must say. But nothing to call my mom about. There's the pot thing, which I don't really agree with. And then, a member of your team was caught in that lobbying story. That's mostly why I didn't pay much more attention to you. I don't think I would recognize you in the street.
But then came the 19th. They showed images of you with your wife and kids. I put the baby bottle down. The baby barely protested.
I noticed your beautiful wife and her long wavy hair looking at you with stars in her eyes. I saw your kids. Kids dressed as normal kids. Not kids who shake hands with their dads before going off to school, you know. Real kids who hug and kiss daddy and who'll feel no remorse to leave a snot trail on daddy's prime minister shirt before an important meeting.
And then I saw you. You were gorgeous. I mean, you look good, you know. You're not my type. I'm married, you know. But your hair looked great and your shirt too. You looked right out of a Harry Rosen catalogue, but without the usual model's scorn. Right there, surrounded by your family, you looked cool.
You looked like my family, but better looking, better dressed. Your wife had nicer hair, but generally speaking, you looked like us.
If I had a second chance to vote today, Justin, believe me, I would cast it for you.
That night, in bed, I looked at pictures of your victory. I was obsessed. For once in my life, politics looked like me, physically. It no longer was a thing filled with old men making decisions belonging to the previous century.
But I'm realistic and thought I had been had by your image campaign. I was another of its victims. After the elections, but a victim, nonetheless. But because of your wife's starry eyes, your kids T-shirts and of you great hair, I became a Liberal. Horrible, isn't it?
Then, the next day, my first as a Liberal, I saw you shaking hands at Jarry metro. Then I heard about your call to Barack. Even worse, I saw that video where you're talking about journalists with a supporter.
Damn, Justin, you really want to make me feel bad for not voting for you? OK, I give up. I regret not voting for you. I'm borderline shameful.
In any case, all this is a long-winded way to ask you one simple thing: please keep on making me regret for not having made an X next to the Liberal party, that morning.
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