I am sitting here, having drunk numerous Bud Light/Clamato red beers, trying in vain to come to grips with what I have just witnessed. I promised myself that I wouldn’t be as caustic tonight as I have been, but the search for real truth can never be railroaded by flimsy, drunken promises; like telling yourself that you’ll be nicer to people, or the vows of marriage.
Frankly, I’m bored with it already. I can only watch people I loathe for so long, especially since many of them have been at the very top of my “God Do I Fucking Hate You” list for such a long time. After a while, watching them makes me seriously begin to question my own sanity. I rationalize it by saying that I need to know the truth. The truth is, you are going to find damn little truth at a political convention. If the contest is previously decided, conventions are nothing more than political stroke-jobs; a rite of ascension for the Whore of Babylon.
Jesus, I can’t even write I’m so turned off. The words usually flood my mind to capacity, and the trick is to keep the best ones and put them on the page. Tonight, the words are nowhere to be found. They must be dragged, syllable by syllable, from the overworked language centers of my fatigued and beleaguered brain, and I seemed to have run fresh out of catecholamines to fuel my rage.
“The King is dead. Long live the King!”