For me, it’s always been people, not substances. Or if it WAS a substance, it was likely to have been a grilled, deli-style hot dog, probably the reason a previous election night — could be after the primary some months earlier — had been so frustrating to me. That night, rather than a trip through the inside for me and mine alone, I was, quite simply, alone.
While handing out literature at the polls, I’d asked, fearing the wrath of Mom, just when and how I’d be getting home, hoping they’d say there’d be a party and I would get a lift home after that. But when my shift ended, they said only that they’d take me home. Which they did.
Though there WAS a party.
With FRANKFURTERS, even.
While I was…home.
When I whined about it, they claimed I’d wanted it that way, but I had only wanted information, a…
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