They were so confident. They had purchased celebratory champagne. Balloons. Patriotic party favors made in China. I did not share their confidence.

They were my friends, and it was a party, in our little socialist bubble. When you live in Los Angeles, it’s easy to forget the existence of the rest of the country, splayed out across the east, a collection of big box stores and gun owners and truck drivers and fearmongers.

The CNN livestream kept dropping. When it did, our harried host would reset her Apple TV as we anxiously sat in wait. And every time, when the feed returned, nothing had changed. We were watching a pot that was already boiling. Time passed. That’s all it did.

Most stared at the television in disbelief. I stared in resignation. Begrudging acceptance. Tears welled in my eyes, but at no point did I actually cry. I didn’t look at my country as if I was examining an alien life form. I didn’t struggle to understand. I didn’t have to.

Don’t ask “How did this happen?” Don’t ask a question you know the answer to. It happened for the same reason anything devastating happens. It happened because fear, because darkness, lies in the heart of the common man. And, Christ—the common woman. 42% of 51% of the American population. Grabbable pussies with voting rights.

The polls made it appear as though Hillary would win because, well, what reasonable person would go on the record as stating they’re voting for a monster? Voting for a monster is something anyone with a modicum of decorum would do in secret, in much the same way one jerks off to whatever vile pornography one jerks off to in secret. Trump is the human equivalent of vile pornography, yet the opposite of secret. We now know America apparently can’t come unless a woman’s head is being shoved in a toilet.

The fucking emails were an excuse. I miss the old days, frankly, when misogyny wasn’t cloaked in fallacious reasoning. At least saying you hate women for merely existing is honest. Remember when honesty was a valued quality?