My Stomach Hurts
It’s 9:30, and I’m glued to the TV. I can’t write about the great dinner we had last night; that will have to wait until the dust settles.
How this election could turn out this way is beyond me. But then nobody else seems to understand it, either. Books will be written on this election, PhD’s will be granted for studying how and why America could elect an intemperate blowhard.
If, indeed, that is what happens. There is still some slim hope at this hour that sanity will prevail. It ain’t likely, and I’m not placing any bets.
Will pussy grabbing become the new standard for social interactions?
Oh hell, I don’t have anything deep and incisive to say. I’m writing to have something to do, something to take my mind off the looming catastrophe.
God save us all, and God save the union.