Hey, everyone. We had a plan for today's show. We sent Jim Newell to Iowa. I was going to talk to him around 10 or 11 at night about the results of the caucuses. A little bit of analysis. Pretty simple, right? Yeah, it turns out nothing is that simple these days. I am recording this message around midnight. We still don't know who won this thing.

We might not know for a while. So I'm going to play you one of our favorite shows from the

archive, and we'll be back with more information tomorrow.

The last time I went to vote, it took two hours.

I stood in a line that sneaked around a school gym.

And I watched as one by one each and every ballot scanner in the building broke.

Eventually, I shoved my own ballot in an emergency box and hoped for the best. As I left, I couldn't help but wonder, did my vote count?

I think this is a question a lot of people are asking themselves right now as we stare down another presidential election.

Who counts?

For some people, this is a question about whether you can get to the polls at all, and what happens when you do?

For others, this question, it's about a fundamental lack of representation that's built in.

Has been for years.

As someone who lives in D.C., do you feel like you count?

Honestly, no.

I'm one of those people who moved to D.C. and felt like I lost my voice.

Christina Katarucci is a writer for Slate. And for her, like me, this idea of counting is personal.

She moved to D.C. for college, which is when she realized because of where she lived, she had no senator, no vote in Congress.

That made me so angry. It felt like such a profound violation to have Congress who, you know,

we don't even have a voting member in Congress to have them tell D.C., you know, you can't govern

your own city in the way that you see fit.

Like, we're subject to all of the same things that everyone else in America is,

but we don't have an ability to even advocate for ourselves on the federal level.

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