Imagine you're striding purposefully down a long gravel path.

In front of you, the bright white columns of a massive mansion loom, jutting up from

the formal gardens around it.

Everything here is organized, methodical, peaceful, until you show up.

You hold your head high as your heavy footsteps crunch on the gravel.

Each one is a declaration, an announcement, of the message you plan to deliver.

No, not deliver, hurl, like a brick, through one of the perfect windows of that perfect

white house.

You're a rebel, a vanquishing angel, a righteous avenger of all the wrongs done to the millions

of poor suffering, working people you're here to speak for.

Your heart races.

Your face is flush with purpose and...

You snap out of your fantasy.

Okay, so you didn't actually storm that white house.

You're just here waiting quietly in the white house, as in the actual white house.

The president will be with you momentarily, miss.

You shift on the high uncomfortable couch, and feel a warm, heavy hand on your shoulder.

The same one that's been resting there since you were eight years old.

It belongs to the woman who's gone everywhere with you since she pulled you up out of your

tiny small town and introduced you to the masses.

It belongs to your manager.

So does the hot breath that tingles close on the back of your neck.

...