Sad-sacks

There are four sad-sacks sitting around my livingroom. It's day three, we're all dealing with the same situation, luckily with different people. Contrary to mainstream media lies, Republicans DO have hearts. And occasionally we have a few consecutive days in a row wherein we are not celebrating the November election.

The situation is not ideal, but somehow more cinematic than sitting around angst-ridden and alone, grasping a picture of our Lord Ronald Reagan with the Pope.

At 6 AM, I offered Rocky a few Halliburton stock certificates to wipe her tears as she had already run through our supply of paper products. Andrew, my gay houseboy reminded her, "issues are like tissues. Pull one up and up comes another." God, sometimes we just want to beat the living crap out of him but then who would serve us our drinks poolside?

At 10:30 AM the unemployed alcoholic is on the phone, nursing his hangover, martini in hand, "Get her over here and I'll get her off the booze. OH YES I WILL! There's no excuse for her getting soooo damn drunk she can't make it to work." I've now heard it all.

Around 2 PM another cohort repeated (and now regrets repeating) the advice her mother gave her, "You don't pay for man. Man pay for you, Stoopid! Who you think you are? Elizabeth Taylor?" Say it outloud...

We're laughing about liberal boho fashion and talking about a guy who had dandruff flakier than a crowd of protesting tree-humpers.

Oddly enough, I'm the only one who's truly feeling much better.

I replaced the new unfamiliar ache with an older and more comfortable pain. Knew exactly who to go to -- for excellent but incredibly rude advice -- instantly, I felt so stupid I forgot what it was I was whining about in the first place.

It may seem masochistic, and maybe it is. But I'm one of those people who swears squeezing your palm until it hurts (a lot) will make even the most stubborn headache dissipate.

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