13 days

Before I fly, anywhere, I get my house in order, as if I'm fixin' to die, as they'd say in the South. Lucy tells me that in my eulogy she won't say "and her house was in order" but she'll say "she knew she'd die so the bourgeois part of her scrubbed her house within an inch of its life." Whatever. I can't wait to see my boy tomorrow. It's been two months and ten days. That's a lot. And there are 13 days until the election. Lucky 13. Woot woot! And clean bathrooms to boot.