I had a dream about you. You acted like a stranger, and tried to introduce yourself to me while standing next to me at my neighboring urinal in the men’s room. You tried to shake my hand before I’d even finished peeing, and it was this self-interested determinism that made me sure you’d fit right in as a politician in Washington DC. So I did what any upstanding citizen would do: I shook off, zipped up, heartily shook your hand—and then proceeded to wash my hands.