You’ve heard by now that America’s esteemed population of over-privileged, undereducated white males (and some females, UGH) just put Donald Trump into the White House.
This likely means my country will regress monumentally in terms of social and diplomatic issues; the economy will once again favor the richest of the rich. I don’t want to give him any more of my energy or emotion by detailing his “platform,” but you can see some of the unbelievable selling points he pitched here.
Through this post, though, I’m not looking to lament the loss of an entire nation: I need support as I come to terms with a personal loss that’s well on its way.
On January 20, 2017, Donald Trump will be sworn in as President. It just so happens that, on that very same day, all of my rights to my own vagina are as good as dead, too.
A lot of times, people with pets that are dying will plan some sort of grandiose day of fun before they send them off to heaven, a place which is certainly only home to animals now because human beings have proven themselves to be satan incarnates.
Anyway, I would like to treat my fanny to the same fanfare: one last special day of activities she can enjoy before she’s put to death by such proposed legislation as a ban on abortion — as well as punishment for women who have one — repealed healthcare and a defunded Planned Parenthood, which has supplied many vaginas with life-bettering and life-saving care.
Because my vagina has been so wonderful to me over the years, I want to send her off in the best way I know how. The following is my proposed itinerary:
9:00 am: Wake up breathing one last time, since tomorrow she will be suffocated beneath a heavy and heavily guarded chastity belt.
9:15 am: Quietly eat breakfast together and take our last birth control pill so that she will never know what it’s like to conceive a baby before she’s ready (and I guarantee you she ain’t ready).
12:00 pm: Fancy lunch. I will probably feed us a hamburger like everyone in those my-dog-is-dying videos. I’ve been a vegetarian for six years, but she deserves some good protein. My Italian mother will be glad that I am eating “real food” again.
1:30 pm: Go for a run in the park without fear of any strange old man grabbing her because the new President says it’s okay to do so.
2:15 pm: Swipe through Tinder profiles of men she will no longer be able to sleep with because we assume Trump is going to enforce abstinence by martial law or something.
3:30 pm: …Re-open Tinder to see if anyone wants to help her relish in her last free day. Then realize we’d rather spend the day alone together since there will be a man between us from now on.
4:00 pm: Read her the decision from Roe v. Wade so she can remember a time when she was worth something to someone. I will try not to tell her that, tomorrow, she won’t be, but I have a horrible poker face so she’ll probably know something’s up.
6:00 pm: Eat a dinner of pineapple so she smells real nice (that might just be an urban legend but we’ll try it out for her).
7:30 pm: Soak in the tub for a while so she’s underwater and won’t notice how much I’m crying. It will be peaceful for her, though: I would never subject her to torture via waterboarding or other methods that the Human Cheeto proposes.
9:00 pm: Rip out a wine bottle’s cork with my teeth and lean into the sobbing. She’s 28 so I need to stop babying her at this point and tell her the end is nigh.
10:30 pm: Finish the whole bottle of wine and therefore begin to think I hear her sobbing, too.
12:00 am: Go to sleep numb and drunk and probably without underwear knowing that, tomorrow, she’ll be gone.
Did I forget anything? How would you make your fanny feel special on its very last day of freedom? Let me know in the comments section below.
— Andrea Marchiano