I spent election night 2016 in New York City, working a catering gig: Hillary Clinton’s pre-victory cocktail party. The guests went from cloud nine to dead silence. They left the building like folks at a funeral, because, well…they were.
The next morning, I was a sad, millennial mess. "What can I do?!" I asked an empty apartment.
"Jesus works at Arby’s," my mind replied.
I spent election night 2016 in New York City, working a catering gig: Hillary Clinton’s pre-victory cocktail party. The guests went from cloud nine to dead silence. They left the building like folks at a funeral, because, well…they were.
The next morning, I was a sad, millennial mess. "What can I do?!" I asked an empty apartment.
"Jesus works at Arby’s," my mind replied.