Well, I did the goddamn phone-tree thing today. It was so fucking painful. You know that whole idea of flooding your phobias is such ass-shit. For example -- you'd think that all my trips 20 feet up the ladder to attach irri-tape to the side of the house to scare those fuckass woodpeckers would've assuaged my height phobia, but, of course, you'd be wrong. My fear of heights is way worse now. And so it is with the phone. After cold-calling 21 people to inform them that their vote can make a difference, my phonophobia is as strong as ever. It's like it was getting stronger from each call I made... feeding off my fear and sucking any residual confidence straight outtta my ear-hole.
Oh, and I thought I was so fucking clever, calling all these people around lunchtime, thinking I'd get their machines. One machine. Out of 21. Doesn't anyone have a fucking job in this town?! Bastards. And that poor woman who spoke Spanish. I would've attempted to read my spiel in Spanish, but I didn't know the words for "vote," "election," or "non-homestead millage." That didn't leave me with much -- I could've said "Mañana... uh, a la escuela... um, necesitas a vote-o para el board-o de la escuela... y... el renewal del Non-Homestead millage, por favor." I just couldn't pull it off, so I panicked and said "Lo siento" and hung up. What a dick I be. Un "pene," if you will. Even if you won't.
But it's done. Thanks to me, democracy is safe for another miserable day.