Shaken and Stirred

Last night I escorted myself out of a liquor store before I could make a purchase.  The sheer anxiety brought on by tomorrow's election and the effects of the super storm that ravaged my city make me want to stick a straw in a bottle of whiskey and inhale. So I forced myself to leave empty-handed.

Why I regret that decision:

Today there is a port-o-potty floating in the East River.  It wasn't there last night, but it has been bobbing in the water since six o'clock this morning.  I called the city sanitation office, but nobody answered.  The construction workers who keep walking by the semi-submerged toilet don't seem at all interested in doing anything about it.  It's not hurricane detritus, but it does seem like something that should be put on dry land.  Does cholera flourish in forty degree weather?  

I went to the Board of Elections to volunteer as a poll worker this morning because somebody on the internet said help was needed.  ("Somebody on internet" sort of gives away the punch line here)  Not only did the people in that insanely crowded office not need more poll monitors, they absolutely could not accommodate random do-gooders standing in line for 20 minutes just to interrogate them about what may or may not be an internet lie.

The people on the radio, television, and internet won't stop talking about the election. The old ladies in my local coffee shop won't stop talking about the election. The voices in my head won't stop talking about the election. 

Oh, Mr. Jameson.  Make mine a triple.