Brad Pitt is single again! (Who cares though, really. Everything is pointless.)
That hard-to-reach terra incognita space between the couch and the wall will get it’s annual vacuuming in preparation for holiday guests. (But, like popcorn kernels and cat fur aren't a threat to democracy.)
At least 4 years isn't forever? (Oh god. Oh no. Why? This isn't real, right? It can't be real.)
It’s considered festive, not piggish, to eat my weight in Aunt Donna’s homemade peppermint bark. (Being fat really won't matter once the 1st Amendment disappears.)
After Thanksgiving’s moratorium on all political discussions, family dinners will now focus 100 percent on what we’re all watching on Netflix. (Oh, god, how am I going to talk to my family about Netflix for 7 days?)
Even though I could do without Meemaw asking when I’m going to stop doing that “roller derby thing” and give her grandchildren, she does make the yummiest holiday spritz cookies. (But, once Meemaw's social security is privatized she'll have to move to a cardboard box and never be able to make spritz cookies again.)
All the smiling and biting of my tongue I do when relatives say something offensive will stimulate my cheek collagen. (But, being a youthful female of reproductive age is probably will probably be illegal soon).
Unlike other times of the year, I don’t have to make any excuses for watching Love Actually on repeat. (Is it possible to watch this under a depression blanket on repeat for 4 years?)
Maybe there will be a recurrence of the 2014 hot chocolate food poisoning incident, which although painful at the time, was an effective pre-cleanse before January’s detox cleanse. Fingers crossed! (see number 4).
There’s a chance that when Mom hinted her gift would be tropical-themed, she meant a Caribbean beach vacation, instead of, like, a mason jar sandcastle.
Thanks to that creative writing class, I have an increased vocabulary to turn down holiday parties with finesse. (Okay this actually is a reason to be merry).
It’s the perfect time of year to clean out my handbag and transform the items found at the bottom into quirky stocking stuffers. (Of course it's not a nickel covered in a melted piece of Orbit; it's an artisanal Christmas ornament, a simple throwback to the Great Depression, which isn't not relevant considering our present circumstances).
Thanks to this election, it's much easier to weed out potential Tinder dates. If the dudes don't GET it. They don't get IT. Feminists only from here on out. (That bad thing about this strategy is, it turns out there are a lotta men out there who aren't into equality after all).
Originally published in Skirt Magazine. A strange publication that paid.