Dear Texas,

Thank you. From the bottom of my four-valved human heart, thank you for your support. I understand now that you love me, Texas, and we shall never be parted. You have seen me and you have seen Beto O’Rourke, and you have chosen me, Texas. Oh, yes. You and I are one, and we shall be one always. It is a beautiful thing, more beautiful than soup.

It was a terrible thing to think you would be parted from me. I dreaded it as I dread the thought of soup that has expired but you don’t realize it has expired or soup that was hot but is cold or being forced to play in a band. The valves of my heart clapped shut at the thought of it. But Sen. Beto O’Rourke is not what you wanted, Texas.

Look at him. I do not understand what appeals to you in him! His hair is not secure but moves naturally in the wind. He wears pants that are slim, like the pants a matchstick might wear, and when he smiles, strangers send him salacious messages. Inappropriate, Texas!

I love barbecue sauce, which I often put on my soup, and which I know Beto would have denied you. He would have given you tofu and silicon and dyed hair! You could not have abided them, Texas. You do not love tofu as I love soup, and you.

He also wasted precious time in his youth that could have been spent engaging in strenuous debate, the highest and noblest of pastimes! Or in studying with a group of students from No Lesser Ivies. He played in a band? This was not what you wanted, Texas, and you were right to say so. Texas hates music and loves the Robert’s Rules of Debate.

If you had elected Beto, you would not have been happy to send him to Washington. You would have wanted to keep him near you, to look upon and delight in, since he looked like a president written by Aaron Sorkin. You would not have been able to bear seeing him go to the Senate and vote. His votes would have compromised him. My votes merely enrage those he would have disappointed. I have kept him pure for you, Texas.

I see you love me more than an ordinary man like myself loves his soup, which is to say, more than life itself (eat soup breathe soup live soup). I am Ted Cruz, and I have the texture of a normal man and the shape, just as a good senator ought to have. And I have your vote. I do not have Beto’s so-called charm. (It is easy to have this thing the pundits call charm! Why, a panda bear might have it! I have something far dearer: the ill will of everyone who encounters me. And soup.)

Yet I sweat through my pores just as you do. I love many things you love, for instance digesting bits of soup using the smooth muscles of the intestines and propelling bits of soup down my tract and absorbing the nutrients, and then furthermore I enjoy hearing Ted Cruz’s ringing voice raised in debate.

I am very sorry I was not the Zodiac Killer. I like that we have a joke together. I like that people make signs with my face and the drawing of the killer’s face. It is a rapport we have built over time. Remember the tweet that my account liked on September the 11th? I remember. Those were our times together, our cherished times. Remember when Donald Trump said my father was responsible for killing JFK and insulted my wife? Do not fear: I have forgotten!

Texas, we understand each other. As long as you see a man speaking out against a police officer slaying an unarmed man in his own apartment and decide that this is damning footage; and as long as you see someone defending the right to take a knee as a slam-dunk attack; and perhaps for longer even than that, we will have each other.

I suspect we may have each other a rather long time.

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