All posts by Jackie

Night Three

Here I am. It’s Night Three: the third night in a row of the wild swings, from giddiness to despondency in moments, that characterize my depression and anxiety. I am twisting and writhing, trying to fit myself into a world that I’m sure doesn’t want me. I am worthless, stupid, ugly. Wasted space, wasted potential. I should have been better, different. Somebody else.

The refrain from that chorus of voices, the youngest parts of my psyche: Why can’t you just be somebody else? Somebody normal? You’re broken. We’re broken. Fix us. Fix yourself. Be better. Please. Be better. Please.

Be better. Please.

I know these are defense mechanisms formed in my early years. Parts of me saw the world and how shitty and unfair it was — fuck, were they in for a surprise in 2017 — and figured the only way to survive was to internalize ALL the bad and make it my own. Make it me. If I was the bad thing, I had some control. I could improve me — the world, not so much. But I could be better — had to be better — or the world would swallow me and spit me out like so many others who couldn’t “handle it.”

God only gives you what you can handle. I don’t believe in god, haven’t for many years, but that saying still makes my stomach sink like a stone before the rage bubbles up into my chest where it burns red-hot. You only give us what we can handle? Do I look like I am handling this relatively easy life to you, you vindictive, omnipotent fuck-face, lying on the floor in a heap of tears and snot and sweat? How can I handle anything with this useless, broken brain you saddled me with? And don’t even get me started on those who have it worse. You accept their prayers while killing their kids and destroying their homes and tearing holes in their bodies and devastating their souls. Either make yourself useful for the first time in thirteen billion years, or go back to your cloud palace and leave us the fuck alone, you gossamer-winged douche canoe. Also, your wine fucking SUCKS.

Okay, that felt a little good. For a moment.

Still: four years of steady therapy and sixteen years of every medication under the sun feel worthless tonight, on Night Three. I’m exhausted to the point of collapse, but when sleep comes, I dream in rapid, flickering images, full technicolor and too well-lit. Vignettes of violence and humor and fear and love and death and that British lizard from the insurance commercials. Snippets of songs and whispers and horns and sirens and bad-movie dialogue.

I wish I could say that I had a good reason to feel this way. There isn’t, though. It’s just me, and my brain. It’s not Vegas, or the Orange Fucker, or work stress, or life stress – though none of those things help. It’s just me, and the voices.

Be better. Please. 

My therapist says to be nice to these voices – they’re only coping mechanisms, after all. They’re trying to protect me. And they are asking politely.

But I cannot be better right now, tonight, or really anytime. At 32, I am mostly baked – I am doing my best, and I am not going to become a superhuman anytime soon. I also cannot control the shitty, unfair world we are stuck in. But I do have work tomorrow, so, voices, here’s my offer: calm down, shut up, and go the fuck to sleep. Be better at being my psyche, will you? Please?

Here’s to a better Night Four.

 

 

Witness the ten stages of tiny house show indoctrination on a Friday night

So I came home from work after a LONG week, ate all the sushi, drank all the wine, and watched ALL the tiny house shows. And I have QUESTIONS. Ahem:
1. Should we all be doing this to be as mobile as possible when the apocalypse comes, which is, by my accounting, going to be next week? Or just face it like ADULTS and accept death with grace? I’m leaning towards death with grace at this point TBH.
2. Seriously, though, how do couples or, like, FULL FAMILIES (I’m talking full grown adults with two children and a dog) handle this shit? What if someone gets norovirus and (sorry, gross, but let’s be real) has it coming out both ends and no one else can use the composting (EW) toilet or fold-down bathroom sink for 24 hours because their toddler is goddamned mess? NO ONE IS THINKING THIS THROUGH MY ANXIETY SPIKES JUST CONSIDERING THIS AND I DON’T HAVE A TODDLER OR EVEN A GOLDFISH BUT I HAVE HAD NOROVIRUS AND YOU TINY LIVING MOFOS DON’T HAVE A FUCKING CLUE WHAT YOU ARE IN FOR.
3. I would fall out of any number of tiny house lofts while just mildly tipsy in a hot minute. And/or hit my head on the short ceiling, pass out, and die of a brain bleed. Tell my mom I love her and make sure to sell my tiny house to a hipster couple who make artisanal butter for a living (this is in one of the shows I watched, I swear to all higher powers and deities).
4. I don’t care how cute rustic/modern/industrial/parisian chic AF your tiny house is, you still have to park it in an RV park next to THAT dude in his trailer. You know, THAT dude, who may or may not be on the run after killing and eating several ex-wives in six different states since 1995. THAT dude.
5. COMPOSTING TOILETS. I would die before touching a composting toilet. Moving on.
6. None of these random people actually want to “live tiny.” They’re just cheap AF and huge whiners. They go into the house and are like, “Oh, we don’t have a soaker tub or double ovens, sad!” Well, of course you don’t, you morons, because your house is ON WHEELS and is smaller than a dog crate! Don’t act shocked when you can’t get a palace for 30,000 bucks and a sliver of land in the middle of Montana. Nobody’s putting marble floors in a 200 square-foot shack with a composting toilet for you, I don’t care HOW sad your rescue dog’s origin story or your husband’s organic beard is.
7. Ooooh, that one’s cute, it has a murphy bed and–
8. NO, NO NOOOOO! I WILL NOT BE SUCKED INTO THIS! I WILL NOT! RESIST! RESIST!
9. Oh, but that one has a porch, and the washer-dryer unit is all-in-one, and–
10. NO JACKIE KEEP IT TOGETHER, DON’T FALL FOR IT, PUT THE WINE AWAY, GO TO BED, DON’T DO THIS, I KNOW 2017 HAS BEEN HARD, BUT YOU CAN’T FALL FOR THIS. DON’T LET TRUMP DO THIS TO YOU, YOU’RE NOT TWEE, YOU CAN STILL TURN BACK, DON’T–
….
….
So, what do you guys think of this one? I hear there’s a great RV park near my work where I could park it, and the neighbors are really nice…well, except for that one guy with the Confederate flag tshirt and the bloodshot eyes, but the composting toilet is really eco-friendly, and–
Oh God.
What…have I become?
Have I lived long enough to see myself become the tiny villain? Shudder.
Good night, all. Nolite te bastardes carborundorum tiny houses.

Dear GOP Senate: the first black POTUS still beat you. Twice.

Dear every GOP Senator who voted today to move forward on repealing the ACA,

Barack Obama still beat you.

Twice.

That’s right. The guy with the funny name and the big ears and the brown, brown skin.

He beat you. He beat you good.

You know who I’m talking about, right? That guy. The one with the beautiful, blacker-even-than-he-was (gasp!) wife who committed the great sin of trying to get people to take a stroll and eat the occasional vegetable. You recall him, I believe? Unlike Kislyak, he’s easy to remember. You know: the tall, handsome one, with the cute kids and the broad smile and the extensive vocabulary?

The one with the Ivy League degrees earned without the help of family money or a legacy name?

The one who won more votes for president than any other person in American history?

The one with the truly impressive inauguration crowd photos?

Yeah, that guy: Barack Hussein Obama. Oh, you sure adored emphasizing that middle name of his! It was your little wink-wink, nudge-nudge, on Fox News or CNN (pre “Fake News!”). You enjoyed needling him with the name he was proud of, the name his father gave him. That gave you a little thrill, didn’t it?

He still beat you.

Twice.

Let’s be real – you stopped giving a shit about not-rich and not-Russian people years ago, but you’d be far less anxious to repeal a now-popular-with-your-constituents, landmark healthcare bill that saves thousands of lives a year if it had been signed by a Democrat with appropriately lily-white hands.

But you still can’t get over it that this brown nobody, who wasn’t groomed for Capitol Hill (or at least the Alabama State House) from birth, whose parents’ interracial marriage used to be illegal in many US states, beat you.

Twice.

And people loved him. Love him, still. They cheer him wherever he goes, with his crisp shirt unbuttoned at the neck, revealing his well-earned vacation tan. Still in his fit fifties, he has years of accolades and humanitarian work ahead of him, while you all have one foot in the grave and the other tied up in the twisted old Confederate flag Bree Newsome tossed defiantly into the sun-baked dirt.

He was, and is, better than you. He changed history, regardless of what you do to his bill now. He changed the conversation. He raised expectations. He made us better, while you drag us down and try, with hand over heart and a word or two about God uttered with a glance up at the dome, to kill the meekest among us.

He was not, and is not, perfect. God, far from it. But he is, above all, a decent man: no sleaze, no scandal, not one opening for you to jab in the knife of, “Him?! An example for our kids?” 

Because he is an example, for all kids. Regardless of color or creed or gender or age.

That’s the future, you know. We’re starting to live in it. A world where your grandson may come home from sports practices one day and tell you he wants to grow up to be as good an athlete as Serena, or where your millennial niece may tell you she decided to become an activist because of John Lewis. A world where your son’s decision to join the armed forces is inspired not by John McCain’s sacrifice, but by Tammy Duckworth’s.

You lost the future years ago. You’re losing it every day. As narrow-minded and cruel as you are, you must be scared. It’s scary when everything you’ve ever known to be true about your own innate superiority is shown to be a lie. I’d almost feel sorry for you, if it weren’t for the fact that you’re actively working to harm or kill anyone who looks or thinks or loves or worships differently from you.

I’m sure many of you will go to sleep tonight contented with the days’ work, grateful that your esteemed colleague’s newfound terminal cancer diagnosis hasn’t deterred him from his goal of taking healthcare away from millions of his fellow human beings. But as unconsciousness overtakes you in your soft beds in your D.C. townhouses, I hope one final recollection rises to the surface and echoes softly in the back of your minds:

Barack Obama, the first black president, is better than you. And he still beat you.

Twice.

Sweet dreams.

Haven’t done this in a while

God, how long has it been since I’ve blogged? Since the election? Since I started my new job? I’d have to check, and it’s taking enough effort for me to even write this thing, so, I’m going to say it’s been at least seven months or so.

I’m going to try to get back into blogging at least 1x per week from now on. After the election, the plan was to wait until the rage-and-despair-fueled fire burning in the pit of my soul subsided before trying my hand at this blog again, but then things got even worse, so, like, fuck it, whatever. I like to be funny in this space, y’all, and not much has seemed funny for the last six months, but I’m just gonna have to make some lemonade out of the shitty, moldering, Russian-grown lemons Cheetolini has given us in lieu of a future for Americans’ health care and, you know, the planet. First, though, an update on my life.

I started a new job eight days before the election. The job is great, but twice since 11/8/16 I’ve dipped into suicidal-ideation-level depressions. Twice. In six months. That’s not good. I’ve just come out of one of these troughs, so now’s a good a time as any to make this thing work.

That’s…kind of the whole update. I got a new job, been working, been depressed, been trying to make it through each day without bursting into tears and/or making a papier-mâché Trump and burning it in effigy in front of my apartment. Also been eating way too much and not working out enough/at all. WOOHOO ISN’T THIS UPLIFTING AF?

I’m better now, though. I swear. I hope. Please, God, let me be better. I mean, I feel better today, but that might be the rosé wine and Carly Rae Jepsen combo I’m jiving to right now. Also, I bought new cleaning supplies for my apartment and that always makes me feel awesome (I’m not kidding. I love cleaning supplies.). I walked 10K steps each of the last three days. I ate, like, a salad yesterday, with minimal cheese in it*. These are all good signs, right? Honestly, I feel like I accomplished a lot more this week than Donald Trump did in Europe. Like, at least I didn’t insult and alienate the United States’ closest allies and follow the rest of the G7 leaders around on a golf cart like a toddler who’s overdue for a nap! See, lemonade!

Depression is pretty funny though, I have to say. Like, last week I broke down and collapsed in a ball on the floor because I dropped a towel on the floor when I meant to hang it up on the hook on the back of my bathroom door. This was apparently more than my sick mind could bear. I just lost it, and sobbed uncontrollably as I stared at it for a moment before bending over, picking it up again, and finally managing to hang it on the hook. I was convinced that I was a terrible, disgusting, evil person because I had a moment of clumsiness and accidentally dropped a towel, which, in case you’ve never encountered one, is a soft, unbreakable object which is not spoiled from resting on a moderately clean hardwood floor for 3.5 seconds. Honestly, I should have been celebrating instead of crying– in getting that towel on the hook in only two tries, I still accomplished more for the good of our nation in one day than the President has in 130 days, so I’m just going to go ahead and pat myself on the back for that one.

Maybe I’ve been looking at this “our president and his entire posse are traitors” thing the wrong way – really, this guy just gives all of us a pass to be our most incompetent selves at all times. I mean, my dog puts more effort into shitting on the lawn than Trump puts into leading a nation of 330 million people, so let’s give that (literal) bitch a gold fucking medal, right? RIGHT!

Huh, I feel even BETTER now. More rosé! More Carly Rae Jepsen! Depression, go fuck yourself.

Till next week!IMG_20170528_193437

*minimal cheese means a lot of fucking cheese but whatever

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FYI: I Will Cease to Care About Anything on Friday Except Gilmore Girls

This is a quick heads-up that I will cease to care about anything or anyone else on the planet this Friday except for the four-part revival of “Gilmore Girls” on Netflix. Here are just a few things the existence of which I will forget about for six full hours:

  • Energy bills
  • My failed high-protein diet(s)
  • Nuclear proliferation
  • My unkempt eyebrows
  • Donald Trump
  • Neo-nazis (see above)
  • Deep dish pizza vs. regular pizza
  • Daylight Savings Time
  • Time
  • Space
  • Space-time continuum
  • Stephen Hawking
  • Feminism
  • Planes
  • Trains
  • Automobiles
  • Zucchini noodles aka “zoodles”
  • Fro-yo
  • Ill-fitting jeans
  • Red states
  • Blue states
  • Purple states
  • The oceans (all)
  • The continents (all)
  • Also lakes
  • 2016
  • 2017
  • 1066 (I know stuff happened but I forget most of it anyways blah blah England)
  • Most of History
  • Millennials
  • GenX
  • GenC (?)
  • Whatever generation I am
  • Non-fat Greek yogurt
  • Your racist uncle
  • Birth control methods (all)
  • Indiana (included in above “red states” but I want to forget it twice)
  • The New York Times
  • Fake news
  • Real news
  • Sort-of-real-maybe news, but it was retweeted by Joss Whedon so who knows?
  • Carrier pigeons
  • Ostriches
  • All birds, really
  • Whether or not there is a God(s)
  • Reptiles
  • Whether my direct deposit for work will kick in soon
  • Apples
  • The fact that we are all, as Dickens said, fellow passengers to the grave
  • Reality
  • Satire

Why? Because after this year, I deserve this ONE THING, OKAY? WE ALL DO! JUST THIS ONE THING! SIX HOURS! FOUR NINETY-MINUTE EPISODES! PLEASE JUST LET US HAVE THIS, UNIVERSE!

Ahem.

Happy Thanksgiving.

ggirlslifestyle

 

 

ughhhhhhhh foreverrrrrrrrrrrrrr f*** everything: venting and then doing some real s***

This post is gonna be bad and sort of stream-of-consciousness venting but it ends okay so hang in there!

Here it is:

Ugh forever. Fuck everything.

I was fired up on Wednesday but now ughhhhhhh.

Look, there have been a gazillion pieces on how even if someone voted for Trump for “non-racist” reasons, they still voted for racism. If you don’t buy it after folks like Scalzi break it all down for you in the easiest-to-understand terms, you’re not going to buy it from me, so I’m not going to write another one here.

There have also been a gazillion pieces written on the Electoral College (google it). I fucking hate the Electoral College, since it basically means my California vote is worth less than, say, a Wyoming vote because something something rural Real America(TM) slave state history blah blah blah. So I’m not gonna write one here, either.

Don’t even get me started on the gazillion pieces about how the left needs to understand Trump voters more because blah blah blah. I get it; many of them are losing traditional jobs that aren’t coming back because #robots and they’re mad, but many of them are also assholes who hate that they had to see a black dude on TV for 8 years and sure as fuck weren’t gonna look at an old lady for that long even if she’s white. You can guess where I come down on that argument so I’m not gonna write my own take here either.

So here’s what I have to say: ughhhhhhhh foreverrrrrrrrrrrrrr fuck everything. The next four years are going to be apocalyptic. I’m especially excited for the inevitable Pence presidency, because, let’s get real, our Cheeto-Elect is not gonna last more than a year, tops. He’s never had to do any actual work in his life, and he’s just now realizing that the Presidency involves reading and sitting still and receiving criticism and not staying in Trump Tower among his gold-plated accessories unless he ventures out to grab him some fresh pussy. He’s going to resign, and if not he will be impeached, because the GOP would vastly prefer working with Pence (ugh) and, let’s face it, Mr. Cheeto has already committed about a zillion impeachable offenses and will accumulate more in his first five days in office than Nixon managed in five years. Pence hates gay people and women especially and is going to do his fucking utmost to take away our rights, so that’s gonna be GREAT.

And then there’s the worst part: the violence and harassment against minorities. This violence has existed for centuries, duh, but now it’s been validated in the mainstream by the dude who’s gonna be president. People are fucking scared. Hundreds of incidents a day have been reported since Nov. 8: women randomly getting grabbed walking down the street, Muslim women having their hijabs ripped off, black people called n****** who should “go back to Africa” (because it’s not like our white ancestors dragged their black ancestors from Africa against their will in chains, but okay, sure), anyone who looks vaguely Hispanic threatened with deportation (not that anyone should be threatened with deportation, but I’m almost tickled by racists who can’t tell the difference between someone of Asian descent or Mexican descent).

Also the environment is over and maybe there will be a nuclear war and Marie Le Pen will be elected and I can’t shop at Macy’s anymore and I’m a privileged-yet-depressed white bitch and I hate myself.

Ughhhhhhhh foreverrrrrrrrrrrrrr fuck everything.

Ughhhhhhhh foreverrrrrrrrrrrrrr fuck everything.

Ughhhhhhhh foreverrrrrrrrrrrrrr fuck everything. Also something about safety pins?

Okay. Thanks for listening. Now let’s do some shit.

Planned Parenthood Donation Link

ACLU Donation Link

Southern Poverty Law Center Donation Link

I told you the post would end okay!!

 

 

 

It’s our turn to fight

I haven’t written in a long time because I was job-hunting. I have a new job now. So yeah, I’m back.

And this is my election post for the day (also found on FB).

Last night I was despondent. For a few moments, my depression reared its head in the ugliest way. I barely slept.

This morning, I realized a few things:

I am white
I am well-educated
I have an amazing job with amazing benefits
I have an amazing support system
I am cis-het
I live in California

Barring a national overturning of Roe v. Wade or an uptick in assault on women in general nationwide, my rights and I are ok for the foreseeable future. Which is why it is now my job to fight for others.

For people of color, ESPECIALLY women of color
For those who don’t have the chance to go to college
For the unemployed, under-employed, and disabled
For the uninsured or those soon to be uninsured
For the poor
For the LGBT community
For people in places like Flint (STILL NO CLEAN WATER Y’ALL) and Ferguson and Standing Rock.

If you are like me and you enjoy many tremendous privileges, it is also your time to fight.

In municipal politics
In state politics
In national politics
In our communities
In our homes

I’m scared tbh. But I know I’m not nearly as scared as those in the marginalized groups above. So it’s on me. It’s on us (that mostly means you, white people).

I start by setting up a monthly donation to Planned Parenthood, which will be crucial to the well-being of women and girls and even men in the coming months and years if the ACA goes down. And then I research my next steps.

To 2018 and beyond.

Much love.

Reminder: You Are an Actual Person

It’s been a hell of a week. I don’t need to link to any of what’s been going on because, well, if you don’t already know you must be a mermaid living in King Triton’s undersea realm who is too busy trying to trade your voice to a sea witch in order to marry a random human prince to pay attention to Land News(TM), in which case, good luck with that.

If you identify as a woman, you are probably having a lot of feelings right now. Anger. Sadness. Fear. Defiance. High Priestess Michelle Obama–First of her name, Mother of Dragons and Malia and Sasha,Harvester of Organic Vegetables–summed it all up pretty well, I think.

If you identify as a woman this week, you’re probably also experiencing flashbacks. Flashbacks to the time your classmate reached down your shirt and groped at your (still flat) chest during story time when you were six and said this meant you were his girlfriend. To the time when your middle school teacher looked a little too long at your bare, white, unshaven thirteen-year-old legs on the first warm May day in seventh grade and remarked that he was “grateful it was shorts season.” To the time when your roommate came home crying because a boy tried to pressure her into sex before she was ready and called her a tease for refusing. To the time your heart was pounding in your chest as you walked down the dark New York street at nine p.m., worried that the strange man on the corner, angry at having his catcalls ignored, would follow through on his threats to “fucking rape and kill you, you ugly fat bitch.”

To all the times you were made to feel like nothing more than a receptacle for men’s feelings, from lust to disgust to rage to impulses of violence. To all the times you were reduced to body parts: boobs and butts and legs and hair and midriffs and arms and feet (yes, even feet). To all the times on the sidewalk you were told, unprompted, to smile.

To all the times you were made to feel like less than human. Like less than a person.

One definition of feminism is “the radical notion that women are people.”

A reminder for you, because I’ve needed to remind myself so often this week: you are an actual person. A human being. A soul. You are more than the meat on your bones. More than a number on a scale of attractiveness or weight or both. More than a reflection of what some men (and women) hate about themselves and the state of a scary and changing world.

I am an actual person. You are an actual person, too.

I love you.

Good night.

Jackie’s 17 Steps for Drafting Your Young Adult Novel

I’M BAAAAACK! MISS ME, BITCHES?

It’s been a nutty couple of months. I’ve been doing job searching while also finishing a draft of a Young Adult novel (aka YA for the uninitiated). It may or may not ever see the light of day (aka the shelves of a bookstore), but I’m pretty proud of having finished it. So proud, in fact, that I thought I’d share the wisdom I gained throughout the writing process for all my 17 blog readers. YOU’RE WELCOME.

Step 1: Come up with an original, never-before-imagined idea for your book. HAHAHAHAHA LOL J/K THERE’S NOTHING NEW UNDER THE DYSTOPIAN CHILD-KILLING-GAMES-MY BOYFRIEND-IS-A-VAMPIRE SUN; pick your poison, put your twist on it, and move on.

Step 2: Draft a detailed outline of your book, including key plot developments, character introductions, and emotional arcs. This one is easy: open a word doc and begin with Chapter 1. Then, halfway through outlining Chapter 1, give up and just begin to wing it because who has time for this shit?

screen-shot-2016-09-13-at-9-01-14-am

Step 3: Write about 5,000 words of your book and feel pretty good about it. You know what? This isn’t half-bad! Teens would like this, right? RIGHT?

Step 4: Re-read your first 5,000 words and realize they are TERRIBLE. Oh my God, my dog could have written this. Why am I even trying? WHY AM I EVEN ALIVE?

Step 5: Cry

Step 6: Remember the E.L. James is a published author of poorly-written plagiarized fan-fiction and get your shit together. YOU CAN DO THIS, YOU WILL DO THIS!

Step 7: Get to 25,000 words and feel pretty good about it. You like your protagonist, and you hate your villain. There’s real conflict here, and some humor. You’re a good writer, you really are!

Step 8: Re-read the 25,000 words and remember that you are the worst writer to ever walk the Earth and also a terrible human being. OH GOD WHY DID I DO THIS? I’m a worthless hack. I’m going to go eat everything now.

Step 9: Cry while curled up into a ball on your bed and devouring a bag of pretzel twists dipped in an ENTIRE TUB of cream cheese while re-watching Star Trek: Voyager on Netflix. To be fair, this is my coping mechanism for all my setbacks in life, not just writing-related fails.

Step 10: Remember that if she could see you now, Captain Janeway* would tell you buck the fuck up, guzzle some black coffee, and get back to work, Ensign! I’m sorry, Kathryn, I was weak. I WILL KEEP WRITING RIGHT AFTER I STOP THAT WARP CORE BREACH AND PREVENT THE BORG FROM ASSIMILATING THE SHIP, CAPTAIN!

janeway-borg-meme

Step 11: Read a really good book by an excellent author and come to peace with the fact that you will never be that good but at least you can write grammar real good; and know how to do punctuation and stuff and things.

Step 12: Damn it.

Step 13: Finish your draft! Wow, what an accomplishment! Even if no one reads this, you’ve written a fucking book–how many people can say that?

Step 14: Go on Twitter and realize everyone and their mother has written a YA book just like yours. Fuck.

Step 15: Edit your manuscript which primarily deals with the lives of teens and realize that you have no idea about the lives of teens. I think I made a reference to desktop computers in there…do kids even use computers these days? Or do they operate their smartphones via chips embedded in their brains that allow them to send Snapchats with the firing of a single neuron? HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO FIND OUT ABOUT THIS? I guess I could ask an actual teen, but…ew, amirite?

Step 16: Shake your fist at the sky and curse the day that the first members of Generation C were born. Little bastards expecting their lives to be accurately depicted in literature–don’t they know that you are OLD AF RN?

Step 17: Remember that Generation C will soon supplant your Millennial Generation as the most hated of all time. Steeple your fingers while laughing maniacally at their forthcoming generational pain. NOW GO BUY MY BOOK, KIDDOS!

THE END

*I apologize for the obligatory Star Trek reference as I know certain people (ahem, L**) think all I do is talk about “Star Trek, Star Trek, Star Trek,” but I’ve basically just embraced being a ridiculous obsessed nerd so…yeah, get over it. 

**J/K, L, you know I love you.

 

5 Random Star Trek Characters Who Would Make Better Presidents than Donald Trump

I haven’t posted in a while, and I love Star Trek as usual, so here are five random characters from the franchise who would make better presidents than Donald Trump.

*Mild SPOILER ALERT for plot elements of DS9, Voyager, TNG.*

5. Any Redshirt

Screen Shot 2016-08-13 at 3.05.39 PM

Series: Star Trek, The Original Series

About: A redshirt was a random crewman in a (duh) red shirt who beamed down to a planet just to die immediately, usually beginning an investigation by Kirk, Spock, and McCoy into a new alien threat or phenomenon.

Why a better president than Trump? Unlike Trump, Redshirts actually sacrificed something for their people/crew. Granted, they weren’t super bright–you’d think eventually they’d ask if some of those blue-shirted mofos could go on an away mission for once instead of them–but at least they actually did their jobs and shit. And probably paid taxes on their Starfleet salaries.

What they would say about/to Trump: “I can’t believe that guy would insult the family of a fallen sold–OH GOD, WHAT IS THAT THING? IT’S COMING FOR ME, CAPTAIN, PLEASE–” *dies*

4. Lon Suder

Screen Shot 2016-08-13 at 3.11.05 PM

Series: Star Trek: Voyager

About: Lon Suder is a violent sociopath who murders a fellow crewman in Season 2 because he “didn’t like the way he looked at him.” With the help of Tuvok (aka Black Spock), he regains some measure of control over his violent impulses to try to repay his debt to the crew. But he still likes killing people and never really stops liking it, up until his own demise.

Why a better president than Trump? Unlike Trump, he actually tries to not be a sociopath and ultimately works with the Doctor to take back Voyager from the Kazon (aka Lame Klingons with Weed Hair) while the rest of the crew is marooned on some random planet. He gives his life to save them. So, once again, actual heroic sacrifice. From a SOCIOPATH. 

What they would say about/to Trump: “He said what about Mexicans? Look, I know I killed a guy in cold blood for no reason, but I’m no racist. Excuse me, I have to go die now in order to complete my redemption arc, nice talking to you!”

3. The Borg Collective

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Series: Star Trek: The Next Generation; Star Trek: Voyager; Star Trek: First Contact (film)

About: The Borg collective is a cybernetically-enhanced species that assimilates and consumes all technology and civilizations it encounters with the goal of galactic domination and “perfection.” They operate as a collective consciousness and purge the individuality of all people they assimilate. They’re like evil space zombie-locusts and are terrifying.

Why a better president than Trump? Despite being pure fucking evil, at least the Borg are efficient, organized, and have a plan. They have a solid anti-discrimination policy and are willing to absorb all cultures regardless of stereotypes. Also, they have transwarp drive capacity, which would definitely be a boon to the US economy!

What they would say about/to Trump: “We are the Borg. You will be assimilated. Resistance is futile. Your biological and technological distinctiveness will be added to our–oh, wait? It’s you again, isn’t it? The Trump human? You know what, I think we’re good on biological and technological distinctiveness for right now. We’ll just be on our way to fight Janeway again. Sorry to bother you.”

2. The Wormhole Aliens

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Series: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine

About: The Wormhole Aliens, aka the Prophets, are beings who live outside of time in a stable wormhole that connects the Alpha and Gamma Quadrants of the galaxy (a 70K light year distance). Deep Space Nine basically guards its entrance in the Alpha Quadrant. The aliens are also seen as the gods of Bajor, a nearby planet where people have weird noses and wear one earring. There’s also some space Jesus stuff going on, but I don’t want to spoil the arc of the show.

Why a better president than Trump? While Trump does seem to think he is God, these beings are actually gods, so BOO-YAH. Also, they built a passage that makes it possible for humans to make a 70-year journey in, like, ten seconds, so they could really attack the problem of our crumbling infrastructure head-on.

What they would say about/to Trump: “Where is the Sisko? Who are you? Why do you exist here?” *Listens to Trump ramble for five minutes incoherently* “We thought we were incomprehensible and cryptic, but we have nothing on you. The Trump is aggressive. The Trump is a moron. We must destroy the Trump.” *Uses wormhole energy to completely evaporate Trump as if he is a Dominion warship*

1. Porthos the Dog

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Series: Star Trek: Enterprise

About: Porthos is a Beagle that belongs to Captain Archer, who is (sorry, Scott Bakula) objectively the lamest Captain. He goes on the Enterprise with Archer and a couple times almost dies. His almost-death is a plot point of some significance in one particular episode. There is a reason Enterprise was canceled after only four seasons.

Why a better president than Trump? He’s a pretty cute, nice dog. Likes everyone. Does well in new situations. Good listener. Not the color of a Cheeto.

What they would say about/to Trump: *Is transported down to Earth, takes a huge dump on Trump’s shoes, is transported back to the Enterprise immediately*