I'll be honest. I did unplug my headphones when this guy started talking about his Lord...
...and chose to commune with God in my own way, with Bono. Because Bono? He's got God's ear. Amen.
And it was all good. Jogging and watching history go down right before my freaking eyes. And then President Elect Hot took the podium.
And my heart? It stopped beating. And my feet? They stopped running. And the treadmill? It didn't GIVE A SHIT and kept on going, sending my spastic ass sailing off the fucker (not totally, but close enough).
And I'll be honest again. When this guy took the stage for the benediction? I was about ready to check out of the proceedings and head on home. But I didn't. And man, am I ever glad. Because this old dude? He fricking rocked it. Big time.
I'm not a cryer. I made it through the inauguration without a single tear. Until the final moments. When he blessed the angelic Sasha and Malia. And the camera panned to Momma Michelle, smiling at her girls, the girls with their little heads bowed in prayer. And that, my friends, was all it took. I shed a tear. Or two. Or wept openly for a moment. Whatever.
And now? I'm trying to reconcile how one remains respectful of someone in such a position of high authority as PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES, while lusting after his fine ass, because holy hell, that man is smoking hot. It's going to be a fabulous eight years.