Mental and dental.

Once again I am staring at this page with nothing to say.

Perhaps I am feeling laconic because I am too miffed to write.

I have so many things hanging over my head, so much that has to be done so fast that I think that rather than spending my morning at the dentist—awaiting the culmination of six months of grueling dental surgery—perhaps I should make my way down to the Aquarium at Coney Island and graft a couple of octopus arms onto my corpus.

I am the fastest writer I’ve ever met. And with each passing minute I seem to fall three more minutes behind. Two more arms, or four, would help me write even faster than I already do.

To be totally clear, it’s not just overwork and under-appreciation.

I also have the spectre of impending Trumptastrophe hanging over my head.

What if he wins?

Is there anywhere to go?

Israel? New Zealand? Canada?

What if the last best hope for man perishes from this earth?

What if, I pray, we dodge this orange-faced bullet?

Will we have learned anything?

That’s enough for this sad, scary and dental morning.

I’m looking forward to anesthesia.