A distant relative - okay, my son - is fretting as the Big Clit voting is creaking to an end. His anxiety isn't that I'm mired in last place for Author of the Year. Nor is it that "Winter's Game" has garnered approximately zero enthusiasm in each of several Story categories. (Not that I pay the slightest attention to reader scores.)
The lad is, understandably, concerned that the family mortification from the final Clit tallies will sully his own otherwise sterling street creds.
(On a personal level, it makes no difference whether your vote - for me and mine - is cast as a 1st or a First.)
Ending with a Latin flourish - intégrité uber alles,
Paige