On the morning of the eighth day before the election, I opened the drawer where I keep my panties and was oh, so surprised to see them all laid out nice and orderly and not, as I suspected they would be, in a bunch.
Funny thing, ain't it, that the closer it gets to the election, the calmer I become? What's the point of going bezerk at this juncture? I can no more change the outcome of the election with my rantings than I can change the amount of money in my wallet with a wish.
It's my belief that the outcome is already decided, anyhow. All that's left is the voting. Even the people out there who declare themselves as still undecided probably already know deep down who they are going to vote for. So, barring a huge October Surprise, nothing anyone does at this point is going to sway the election either way. Unless, of course someone comes up with a photo of Kerry getting a lap dance from a Chippendale dancer or one of Bush eating a baby. Oh, look at that.
Not a baby, but close enough. Thanks, Alex Ross!
No siren-wailing Drudge headline or British attempts to control Ohio voters will sway this thing anymore than my standing on a soapbox in the middle of the internet will. So why bother? Oh, sure. It's great to have a place to wail on about my angst and my anxiety. It's great to let it all out day after day. But to what end? So I can drive home from work thinking about all the aggravation I've gathered during the day and then take it out on some elderly driver whose only fault was in not using her directional to make the sllllooooow turn onto the side street? Eh, I probably would have screamed those things at her anyhow.
Perhaps I'm engaging in a bit of avoidance. Maybe I'd much rather focus on the rituals of Halloween or the latest, greatest band to hit the airwaves because writing about the election - even talking about it to my friends and family - only serves to make me feel agitated. Maybe I don't want to think about what will happen should Bush lose. And I don't mean what will happen to the country as a whole, but what will happen to the building ulcer in my stomach or the volcanic anxiety building up in my head.
Yea, who am I kidding. I'll start off today by writing about ghost stories or something non-political and by late afternoon I'll be wading through the swamps of Democratic Underground and feeling my panties slowly creep up my ass. I have no one to blame but myself. No one is forcing me to engage in all of this. I could just as easily turn the computer off and go read a book or bake a cake. And then I think that if I did turn the computer off - if I shut myself off from blogging for the next eight days - I would end up standing on a street corner wearing a sandwich board proclaiming the end is nigh. Which, when you think about it, is what a lot of us do anyhow, in a virtual sort of way. Sometimes those sandwich boards are hastily spray painted with things that are more dire than they seem, and then people laugh and point at us. And sometimes the words are right, or at least well thought out, and they laugh at us anyhow because, really, we're standing on a street corner ringing warning bells. Parents will steer small children away from us and then go home and prop those kids in front of the nightly news, where they can see professionals
wearing sandwich boards that someone else painted for them.
Well, that was off course. But honest, nonetheless. Which is all we can expect from each other, right? Hah. Even I don't believe that. It may be the season of the witch out there, but it's also the season of lies. Maybe it's no coincidence that Election Day is so close to Halloween. After all, we're getting pages full of tricks and treats every day. And one person's trick is another person's treat. So late at night on November 2nd, we'll all peer into our bags to see if we got the full-sized Hershey bar or the razor in the apple. Depends on which doors you decided to knock on, I guess.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a wedgie to pick.