Just got back from voting. Jeez, you don't want to know about it. A few days before, I posed with my old friend La Catrina. I've known her for a long time. Perhaps she served as midwife at my birth, and cackled when I emerged squirming out of my mother's birth canal. She befriended me early, at any rate. I like her. She's all right. I'm not disposed to invite her on our big, big date too soon, though. I don't want the final dance till I'm good and ready, and maybe I am, secretly, always prepared to accept her invitation onto the ballroom floor for the last number. I won't go wailing. I might offer her my arm gladly. I had a mild premonition, once, that this would be the year I'd die. I'm 57 years old as the feeling forecasted. I don't think it's going to happen. It was just a mild rattling of my tensed up bones, like a California tremor we experience before the big one hits. To drop the metaphor for lack of a followup line, I don't expect my family to be picking out my coffin soon. But this is the lady who'll have the final say in my life, and she looks kind of cute standing by me, don't you think? She's damn becoming for a hag, a bitch, a foul princess, an empty companion for the night. I hope I'm eating pizza tonight to the good news regarding our 45th president. I hope it's the one I chose. I didn't see any viable alternative to the mess we've created. I still saw life ahead for the nation as I marked the ballot, not the mushroom clouds that accompanied thoughts of the other major candidate. I wore my "I Voted" sticker out proudly. La Catrina got out of a swank Mercedes at the curb wearing a red cap with "Make America Great Again" above its bill. She's such a whore. She'll go anywhere that gives her action. I expect her to be weeping tonight at all the life around her.
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