In 2016, my four-year-old daughter painted my nails red and blue, and I cast my ballot for the first woman president of the United States. I was certain my neighbors recognized what I already had: Donald Trump was dangerous, deranged, and would hurt us all.
But I was wrong.
Every year on my birthday, I buy myself two Boston Creme donuts and devour them with a gluttonous indulgence. First, I lick off the chocolate icing. Yes, it gets all over my face. Then, I nibble the naked donut around the edges until there’s only a thin layer of pastry between me and the cream. Finally, I inhale the donut in no more than three bites, audibly moaning when I finally taste the gooey inside.