You know the kind of afternoon when the rewriting that's gliding along suddenly isn't? Yeah, like that. And then you remember there's a presidential debate and you haven't made dinner and there's only a few beers in the fridge, but, hey, there's wine, and vodka in the freezer, and a whole lot of mysterious dusty bottles in lower cupboards so you think, Ah, fuck it, and turn on the TV...
...and, oh god, you can spot a bullet-proof tie when you see one, spread out so wide on the presidential chest, and you're thinking that man must be dying under those burning lights, and his opponent doesn't have to wear armour--he has time to kick back in the evening and drink Mormon-type drinks after a hard day's debate prep, while the exhausted and armoured guy has been, y'know, dealing with dead Ambassadors to Libya and Israel posturing at Iran and Turkey shooting at Syria, and well, shit, this isn't going to go well.
But then you think, Hey, drinking game! (Because that's such a good idea with no food ballast after a hard day's work...) And every time Mr. Willfull Untruths says Crush, we clink, we drink, and every time he says China we clink, we drink, and at some point a neighbour drops by, and when she's gone we find the beer and wine has become vodka shots and after a blur I find I'm eating dinner after all and now we're in the middle of watching some terrible movie with Ashley Judd and Tommy Lee Jones and everyone is shooting at everyone else in the middle of a dixieland jazz funeral and Judd is buried alive in a coffin with a dead grey person who looks about the same colour as all presidents when they've been on the job more than two years.
And, Damn, I say to Kelley, who would want that fucking job? Not me, she says, and we agree we really should not watch so much TV, it's bad for us.
