I was at a party with almost everybody in the world, or at least this part of liberal Texas: fat grandmas and grandpas bald with hearing aids, 13-year-old girls with sex growing in them, babies in light up shoes, and some parents that reminded me of friends. We won Pennsylvania. We won Ohio. For some reason it didn’t feel real, and I got that hopeless feeling that writing will never touch anyone ever again. It may have been the margarita machine. It may have been the bottle rockets. A gay man gave me his phone number, said I would look great in drag.