Why You Won’t Talk to Me About the Election

election

Because I’m too busy vomiting up the anxiety wine I consumed while refreshing the CNN homepage every 30 seconds last night.

Because I’m curled up in the fetal position on the floor of my darkened bedroom, with the shades drawn and the door padlocked.

Because we differ fundamentally on almost every issue, and while I claim to respect your right to your opinion, I secretly judge you for garbage viewpoints.

Because I objectified you in your smokin’ hot pantsuit.

Because you rationally tried to discuss the flaws of Obamacare, while I called you a soulless demon who hates the poor.

Because you’re afraid I’ll start sobbing at the mere mention of politics, because my emotions are so overwhelming around this time of month.

Because you think my Donald Trump impression makes me sound like Travis Bickle from Taxi Driver.

Because you remember that I had to Google “Benghazi” after the second debate, can’t find Aleppo on a map, and have been spelling “Hillary” with one L the whole time.

Because I asked if you thought your own young adult son was a “tasty slice of beefcake.”

Because I frequently confuse NASA, NAFTA, and NATO, and can’t remember which one is supposed to be the “biggest mistake of the 21st century.”

Because whenever you utter “Make America Great Again,” “lesser of two evils,” “emails,” or “crook,” I start twitching involuntarily, and sometimes punch a wall.

Because I’m currently trying to convince the Canadian border control that I’m totally a resident, I just left my ID at home.

Because I made a meme with an American flag superimposed over a dystopian society, with the text “End of Days” over it, and shared it on Facebook.

And I forgot to tag you in it.

Because I chased you away while waving a speculum, screaming “Stay away from my uterus!”

Because I keep shouting “You can’t HANDLE the truth!” even though our conversation ended 20 minutes ago.