I'm already worn out from tomorrow, and it's only tonight. I'm tired of the lawsuits and the exit polls and the projections and the state maps and the pundits and the "I Voted" stickers and I need an antacid again, again. I can't stop clicking through the channels looking for a football game, an infomercial, a Rise of the Lowly Ape documentary to take me away from the election, far away from the blogosphere. My fingers ache from mousing. My eyes blur in the hazy glow of a million tiny pixels blaring falsehood upon inanity. The radio drones--is this the jazz station? Maybe Wednesday.
Worst of all, I've brought it on myself. I love it, and I love it that I hate it in loving it. The ulcer throbs in passion, not in angst.
I can't be cynical, for too long anyway, because the Republic will survive no matter who wins. Honestly, it will, and you know it as well as I do. Osama bin Laden be damned; Michael Moore be unplugged.
I'd link to all the relevant articles, but I don't care anymore. You've already read them--and if you haven't, it's too late, and bless you for it.
Let the games begin.
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