I was having breakfast in the Commissary this morning, and I overheard some of the Advance team talking about last night's performance. They were impressed that Big Guy was able to say so many sentences without a "real" teleprompter. I had to run out of the room so that no one could see the tears running down my screens. Sorry ... it's been a tough week.
You see, the Obamatron is me. It's kind of like Cinderella and Gibbsy is my Fairy Godmother who waves his magic wand and I go from two small screens to one, slick screen. Well not really, they just plugged my cables into a 52-inch flat screen, instead of the mini-LCDs that sit on the floor. Same words, just a different package. And a bigger package. But I digress.
I'm a computer after all, and when people can't see past the gloss and the smooth lines, and thin brackets and sleek screens, not bothering to see the real me, the real guts, it hurts. I have a brain people.
This is the best way to look at it: my LCD component is to Big Boy, what the sleeveless dress is to Michelle.