They say you'll always remember your first time.
Fifty years from now, I'll tell my grandchildren about the windswept November day when I hooked up with Hillary. It was a scandalously public affair, with only an aging shower curtain to shield our dirty deed from the world. I'll never think about voting booths the same way again.
Casting your first vote is a lot like losing your virginity. It feels pretty good at first, but then there's a lot of regret and some silent weeping. Afterwards, you're consumed by second thoughts: "Marco Rubio, why couldn't you have been my first?"
Marco almost was my first. I flirted with him in the Virgin-ia primary but he just couldn't seem to make it to home base. Marco just didn't have enough stamina. That's when Donald J. came my way.
Donald was charming, I'll give it to him. He told me he was off chasing someone else when he said those terrible things about Muslims, Ted Cruz's dad and wife, disabled people, John McCain, Mexican immigrants and women in general. He was caught up in an abusive relationship with a white nationalist and ended up aping his partner's bad habits. But Donald was over that relationship. He promised: "Believe me, I'll be a real gentleman now." I was intrigued. Maybe Donald could be reformed?
Mike Pence made a pretty good wingman, keeping Donald on the straight and narrow for a while. But then Donald's exes called me up, one after another. Some of them told me how he'd borrow money from them and promise to pay them back later, only to stiff them with the bill. Others warned me that he was a seriously bad hombre who would put would his bafflingly small hands way south of the border if I wasn't careful. Gross! Sad!
So I broke it off with Donald. He refused to accept the result, but thankfully in this country that’s a major red flag. The decision was definitely for the best—who knows what Donald picked up from those sleepovers at the Kremlin? Whatever those Russians are spreading around, it's known to cause some embarrassing ED—electoral dysfunction.
Gary Johnson knocked on my door the night I dumped Trump. I knew Gary from my Econ class, and he seemed to be an eccentric but smart guy with a pretty good grasp of free trade and how to fix entitlement programs. But that night Gary was higher than his native Santa Fe (elevation: 7,198 ft.), reeking of the Devil’s lettuce and wearing a rumpled Willie Nelson t-shirt. Gary explained he was anxious about his foreign policy midterm the next day and he needed me to help him study.
We started with a survey of the headlines. "Aleppo—"
"What is a Leppo?" Gary interjected.
"A Leppo, Gary, is like a Cheeto—something that gives a satisfying crunch as it meets its doom. Also something Barack Obama doesn’t much care about." Then I sent Gary home. That dude needs to Wikipedia and chill before he earns my vote.
I never thought I would be interested in Hillary. After all, I know she plays for the other team (read: the Democratic Party). Hillary always seemed so distant: the intimidating sunglasses, the trademark pantsuits, the carefully sculpted hair, the paid speeches in Brazil. As Secretary of State, she was always zipping around from one faraway country to another, shaking hands with dictator after Clinton Foundation donor. So elusive, so unattainable, more wonder than woman.
Hillary's good at playing hard to get, and frankly it's infuriating. Does she care about reaching Republicans like me or is she really into the Bernie bros? Is she for TPP or against it? She has this thing where she'll say one thing to you in private and then she'll go around and say the opposite in public—how coy! I hear it works magic with the hedge fund guys.
Hillary never really seemed to notice me until a few months ago. But once she did, it's safe to say she came on a little strong. Suddenly, every chance she got, Hillary started telling me just how much she wanted me—on Facebook and YouTube, TV and Twitter. Her whole campaign has a clingy vibe. #ImWithHer. #StrongerTogether. #DesperateTimesCallForDesperatePoliticians.
Admittedly, Hillary Rodham Clinton is not the world's most tantalizing hookup. She's not very good at small talk and she always uses the same tired pickup lines (Yes, Hillary, I have heard you're a grandmother. Say hi to Charlotte for me!).
But Hillary is an acceptable hookup. She actually knows what she’s doing. She’s informed and she at least pretends to care about you. She isn’t loud and she won’t annoy your neighbors. If you’re drunk, she’ll stay with you and make sure you don’t drown in your own vomit. That’s really the bare minimum we can expect of our politicians hookups at this point. Seriously, the pickings are that slim. But 2016 has been a rough night out for America and it’s time to pair off. Hillary, I guess I’ll come back to your place (on the ballot).
And Hillary, I want you to know this is a short-term thing. In 2020, I’m swiping right on Paul Ryan faster than you can say "Four more years?" And whatever you do, Hillary, don't email me about getting back together. I want this to be our little secret, and we all know how good you are at keeping those.
Matthew T. King is a Trinity junior. His column, “at the water's edge,” runs on alternate Mondays.
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