Voting the Yakatori Ticket

I nearly cast my overseas presidential vote for edamame. After having dinner with the bf at our favorite Japanese restaurant on Exchequer Street, we bid each other adieu. I was off to scour my bathroom to Landlady's satisfaction, and possible supervision, and bf went off to edit his short film which is both brilliant and burdened with many technical problems...completely fixable.

After getting all the way to Grafton Street, I realized I had left my voting materials under my napkin on the table at the restaurant. I raced back, praying it hadn't been pickled into pink postal ginger. I'd been carrying the thing around for five days trying to find a moment in my hectic life to sit down and read the instructions on how to vote. I didn't want to screw it up and have my vote disqualified. Annie begged me to cast the ballot soon.

Me: Don't worry, I've got time.

Annie: I know how you are, you'll be five steps from the postbox and then say, Oh fuck it, I'll go see a crappy film instead of voting.

She makes a valid point.

Sitting down at the Japanese restaurant, I decided then and there was the best time to figure out how to draw a line linking the arrow to my candidate selection, get the ballot signed by a witness (in this instance, the bf stepped up), and then fold it into some kind of origami dragon before placing it into to the security envelope. There, vote complete! Now, instead of mailing it, I'll instead let it get thrown into a garbage bin full of carrot scrapings, cold noodles and fatty chicken bits.

A waiter retrieved it for me. Now, just because a ballot has one, possibly two, soy sauce stains that doesn't make it any less valid.