I stroll calmly up to the makeshift-polling center. An older lady is talking another voter through the steps of filling out the registration form.

"I need you to fill out number one, two, four, five, and today's date is eleven-five-oh-two, and sign here," I overhear, as she circles the designated areas lightly with her blue pen, that will undoubtedly be accidentally swiped later today.

I focus my attention on the nearest volunteer.

"Hey, how's it going?" I inquire. He leans forward in his chair and rubs his bloodshot eyes.

"Ugh, it's been a long day. You wanna vote?" he asks as he pages through his list of names.

"Yes." I reply in an rather obvious manner.

"He's not on my list." He whispers to the white-haired old lady next to him. I guess he can't help me. I strafe right to the lady and she gives me the same speech I just overheard. I hate filling out forms, but this one was an exception. It was simple; name, address, birth date, and signature. I was done as soon as I took a seat. I handed it to the next volunteer in this assembly line of political helpers. They were efficient I thought to myself.

"Are you 18 years of age or older? Are you a U.S. citizen? Have you lived in Minnesota for more than 20 days?" the list went on, and I answered with a smiling, "Yes," to all of them almost before she finished the question.

I side step right again.

"What's your last name?" I oblige him. "T, huh? Lemme find the T's. T. . . T . . .ok, here's an open page."

He explained that they once again needed me to verify my existence. Easy enough, print here, sign there, and write my birthday over there. Finally, he hands me a voucher of sorts, a little slip of paper, that will finally grant me the ability to fill in little ovals with a #2.

I turn in my filled out ballot, which I sneakily wrote myself in for Mayor. And finally, I got what I came here for, my red sticker with white letters, I voted.