In which the strike gets publicity and Diana misses her big break.

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The news of the strike spread quickly, and with it the participants. Once Hannah and Kate proved our concerns were not confined to Portland, not even the sky was the limit, and certainly not anything as mundane as state boundaries. The missionary spirit grabbed us, if not by the balls, seeing as we lacked that equipment, then just as effectively, and we proceeded to do our best to save the world, or at least the female half of it. The male half didn't seem too happy about the project, for the most part confident that sexual relations were just fine the way they were, and not too pleased with the prospect of indefinite sexual frustration.

Actually, neither were we, but the strike met with so much enthusiasm that we were flabbergasted. Friends and relatives took to the idea like sand crabs to toes, like more intimate crabs to body hair. Mercy told Connie in Austin. Lily told Mary in San Francisco. Myrine told Charlotte in Alaska and her sister in Charlotte. Diana told her friends in Seattle--the few female ones. Lyssa told her cousin in Chicago, Judith in Boston, and even her ex-husband's wife in Atlanta. Marty told his ex-wife in Phoenix, and she joined the strike immediately.

And everywhere they sang the Declaration of Independence. But I'm getting ahead of myself now. That hasn't been sung yet.

Diana sang her song on the weekend. And we got our big break on the weekend, even if she didn't get hers. The shit didn't really hit the fan until we hit the National News.

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