I'm so fucking drunk right now.
Nothing will ever be like 2004. When Foulke flipped it to Mientkiewicz, I was pretty sure I heard every person in my neighborhood and for three neighborhoods over totally explode in joy. But this was pretty fucking incredible. I think I heard at least ten surrounding buildings. It probably would have been louder but I bet each network called things at slightly different times.
Who cares? I just went on a parade with about ten other people over about half the city. It was like we were doing kick return coverage or something; we kept running into tons of people dancing and running around, but we kept this wedge formation going on. Maybe we were protecting the booze. Nobody's going to work tomorrow.
I have to go to bed, but a toast before I go. I shouldn't, but one more Jamey isn't going to kill me. No toast to HOPE — too vague. But as the scion of old ward heelers, as the great-nephew of a fixer and a crook and a man so twisted they're going to have to screw him into the ground at the funeral, fuck it: to no longer being scared shitless by my government.
Tomorrow, when I make a cell phone call, I'm just going to stop whoever I'm talking to at the moment so I can say, "Hey, you, crusted photophobic NSA golem listening to every fucking word of this. Start rewriting your resume, you crypto-fascist shitfuck."
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