I promised myself I would neither blog nor Tweet about the presidential race. I was especially adamant about not mentioning the loudest of them; he who pronounces rude, arrogant slams and slurs, speaking the entitled, dismissive language particular to high school cafeterias — except in his delusional world the alphas radiate an aggressive distortion of truth and embrace of various bigotries like teenboys radiate Axe cologne — where those of us who don’t aspire to be successful and normal as defined by generations of power-crazed, hetero-normative, white males are sneeringly labeled “losers”.
I wasn’t going to write about him. Then, hordes of those people he’d define as losers began to support his brand of deranged bullying and candidacy. So, I thought, “Surely, I need to speak up about this?”
No. I don’t.
I have made too big a deal of all those who have swiped left on me throughout my life. I have cared too much. Just this week I loved myself less for a day or two because I’d felt Twitter-slighted.
As silly as wasting time writing about the arrogant egotists who want to run the country, tell us what we can do with our bodies and who we can marry. They’re playing by rules in a game designed to marginalize me. And, while they work hard to appear hipper and more inclusive, there is still exactly the same sort of marginalizing on Twitter and Grindr and CraigsList, and too, in the job market, and even in my family and among some of my friends.
The thing: those rules, those assumptions about success and should and morality have always been stacked to marginalize and dis-empower me. Thus, for me to waste time worrying about an election — or its contestants — to a position in a construct where I’m nothing but a disposable speck on a replaceable cog is a sort of brainwashed acquiescence to the slavery all those Axe-soaked-overgrown-look-how-big-my-dick-is-white-boys want to continue to impose on me.
And that prick-size-conscious-pecking order also, sadly, informs Twitter and Grindr and Instagram and, well, life. How many likes, how many follows, how many re-Tweets, how much, how often, who loves you, on and on and on – the yardsticks, the posturing, the constant dousing in the stink of society’s (and all the micro-societies’) measures of popularity, success, and worth is, in fact, a form of subjugation.
I won’t. I’m not going to write about it. About them. About him.
I’m going to right-swipe myself. My rules. My game. I’m taking my balls and playing with them all by myself. And I’m okay with that. Because if I’m going to embrace a prick, from now on, it’s going to be mine.