Go Home Tweetyboid, you're drunk.

Ten down, one hundred and twenty-eight to go.

Wow!  What a concept.  The dashboard for the Ramble shows something I haven't seen in a while.  A number in the Scheduled row.  Albeit, it's only one, but a number nonetheless.  I'm not scrambling to get something ready for midnight.   By the looks of it that number will be two with about eight hours to spare.  Whoda thunk it?  I wonder how long it will be before the slacker dood returns.

So, you guys um, like stuff?

Twitter tells me I might like stuff too.  Based on my following Hillary Clinton the little bird says that I might like to follow Donald J. Trump and Marco Rubio?

DAFUQ?  I think the little bird has been in the fermented bird seed again, or eating those "special" seeds it finds on the ground, clean your shit better, no one wants a seed to pop in your face.  I'm not entirely certain the algorithms worked the way the should on this one.   I get entirely too much narcissistic, bombastic, misogynistic, racist, hate filled demagoguery as it is.   I don't think there is enough vodka or acid in the Kool-Aid to make me take that step.  Damages my calm.

Sanity is relative.  At least I'm not blowing bubbles with my spit or "Some gibbering old fool sitting all alone drooling on his shirt.  Some senile old fart playing in the dirt." Lou Reed, Beginning of a Great Adventure.  (Thanks Lou). 

One way or another it should be over by November.  With a bit of luck, (touch wood, not that I'm superstitious or anything), my stress, anxiety and depressions triggers will lessen.  Should it go the other way?  Does anyone out of the country have a spare bed I can bum while I play expatriate.  I have all of my shots, I'm kinda handy for a laugh or two, and am mostly house-broken; mostly that is.

Thanks for sitting in.  Eleven down, one hundred and twenty-seven to go.

See you tomorrow.