Cry
harder MAGA.
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Ya know, I’ve meditated on this with the solemnity of a
monk on mushrooms, reflected on it deeply, then shallowly, then in that strange
in-between place where you’re not sure if you’re having an epiphany or a small
stroke, and after a brief but spiritually exhausting consultation with whatever
dying star still fuels my remaining patience, I have reached a blindingly
clarifying cosmic conclusion…
I do not give a single solitary microscopic fuck.
I don’t give a single solitary microscopic fuck about
these Trump voters crying now because they’ve lost everything. Not one. Not a
crusty crumb clinging to the emotional counter. Not a flicker doing community
theater in my moral periphery. Not an ember faking its own death for attention.
Not even the faint shimmering mirage of a fuck appearing on the horizon like a
dehydrated cowboy hallucinating an oasis he will absolutely never reach.
And yes, I mean the cattle ranchers, the teachers, the nurses who voted
for him, the people who cheered while he gutted their industries, their
protections, and their professions. I mean the soybean farmers, the
white-working-class “price of eggs” patriots, and the families with chronic
illnesses who voted for him, all now stunned to discover the policies they
demanded are, shockingly, the same policies now kneecapping their lives. I mean the Latino voters who believed him, the SNAP single
mothers working two jobs, and the “law and order” crusaders, all of whom voted
for him before realizing he wasn’t aiming the wrecking ball at other people. He was aiming it at them.
The votes were theirs.
The consequences are theirs.
The tears filling the basin of their busted lives?
Those belong to them too.
And let’s not turn this into some quilted sympathy
shawl, because these people never gave a fuck about me. They didn’t give a fuck
about my family, my kids, my friends, my community, my country, my planet, my
water, my air, my parks, my public schools, my loved ones with chronic
conditions, or my friends inside federal agencies he bulldozed. They didn’t
give a fuck about anyone who didn’t mirror their outrage, soothe their
grievances, or co-sign their spite.
But now — NOW — I’m supposed to give a fuck about them?
Bless their hearts.
But absolutely fucking not.
I wanted to give a fuck — I really, really did. I
tried. I searched high and low. I searched the depths of my soul — not a polite
rummage but a full-scale emotional excavation, like the world’s most frantic
TSA agent rifling through spiritual carry-ons. I combed emotional crevices,
psychic alleyways, metaphysical broom closets, existential crawlspaces, and the
psychological junk drawer where old gum wrappers of compassion go to die. I
dusted for prints. I opened trapdoors. I poked around like a deranged archaeologist
brushing sediment off the ruins of my empathy.
Nothing.
Not a footprint of a fuck.
Not a fossilized fuck trapped in amber.
Not even the silhouette of a fuck fleeing the premises
in sunglasses and a fake mustache.
I dug deeper — vaults, sub-basements, therapy loop-only
zones, that abandoned psychological crawlspace where I once stored my last
shred of patience. And at that point, I was Yukon Cornelius tapping every
surface of my soul for anything valuable — licking the pickaxe, grimacing,
declaring “Nothin’!” Trying again. “Nothin’!” One more dip. “Nothin’.” The
fuck-mines were barren.
I tried to give a fuck about the cattle rancher — the
one standing in his dying pastures whispering the most honest sentence he’d
ever uttered: “I voted to be racist, not poor,” spoken like cruelty came with a
customer-loyalty punch card.
Still nothing.
I tried to give a fuck about the nurse who once adored
him for “telling it like it is,” proudly repeating, “He literally said, ‘I’m
going to rob you all blind and sell out this country to its enemies,’ and I
love him because he tells it like it is.” Now she’s holding onto her
decertified profession like a snapped IV bag, shocked the monster she fed was
now gnawing her face.
Still nothing.
I flipped my soul like a messy purse in a Target
parking lot. Shook the drapes. Checked the vents. Nothing. Zero. The conscience
warehouse reported no fucks in stock and none on backorder.
I tried to give a fuck about the teacher — the one who
stapled alphabet letters to walls and bought classroom supplies from her own
paycheck. The one whose entire career was tossed into a bureaucratic shredder
and reclassified as “miscellaneous labor.” She whispered, “I didn’t vote for
this,” and the universe replied, “That’s the best part — you DID.”
Still nothing.
I tried to give a fuck about the soybean farmer — the
one who applauded the tariffs like he was cheering for a hometown team instead
of watching his own livelihood get crushed under the policy boot he begged for.
Now he stands in a collapsing barn mumbling, “Now that I owned the libs… the
oligarchs get to own my farm.”
Still nothing.
So I stepped outside and shouted into the cosmic abyss:
“HAS ANYONE SEEN A FUCK? JUST ONE? A REFURBISHED MODEL?”
The universe, ancient and bored, replied: “Nope.”
I tried to give a fuck about the white working-class
dad — the “price of eggs” warrior — who called my empathy weakness. Now he sits
under a flickering kitchen bulb drafting his future Facebook masterpiece: “I
blame Biden — he shoulda done a better job explaining how Trump’s policies were
gonna screw people like me. That’s why I’m still MAGA.”
Still nothing.
I tried to give a fuck about the people with
pre-existing conditions — the ones who voted for the man who spent four
straight years trying to rip their healthcare out of their hands like a toddler
throwing a toy into traffic. I tried to care about the diabetics who cheered
for the guy who treated insulin affordability like a personal insult, and the
immunocompromised voters who believed expired vitamins and Facebook memes were
a medical strategy.
Still nothing.
And nothing — NOTHING — compares to the Obamacare
crowd. To be completely honest, I never even pretended to give a fuck about
them. They’re just too fucking stupid to give a fuck about. These are the ones
who stayed alive because of Obama, who could breathe, walk, function, and
parent because of Obama — and still shrieked “REPEAL OBAMACARE!” because they
hated his name more than they loved living. The geniuses who only realized
their beloved ACA was Obamacare when the policy was already halfway into the
woodchipper. And now their hero — a man who can’t even pronounce
“acetaminophen” but insists Tylenol causes autism — is gleefully chainsawing
the healthcare Obama handed them.
Still nothing.
I tried to give a fuck about the Latino families whose
loved ones disappeared into the detention machine they once applauded. Nothing.
And then — the SNAP single mom.
Two jobs.
Three kids.
She voted for him before he dragged their nutrition
assistance all the way to the Supreme Court to make sure her children starved —
before he litigated their hunger into federal policy — and now she’s crying
about the consequences she helped create. She whispered, “I didn’t vote for
this,” and the cosmos replied: “You absolutely did.”
Still nothing.
Look — there are innocent people suffering who did not
vote for this. I hate that. I’m a mother. I don’t want anyone hurting
unnecessarily. But sometimes the only way people learn is the hard way —
touching the hot stove, licking the frozen flagpole, sprinting across pavement
with their hands shoved in their pockets like Darwin’s interns.
So many ignored suffering because it wasn’t happening
to them. So many shrugged at cruelty until the cruelty boomeranged.
The world they begged for has arrived, and it’s carving
its initials into their futures with the tenderness of a prison shank.
Be careful what you wish for.
Because now?
Now I hope every day is the day they fucking voted for — until the rest
of us, and in a perfect world WITH their help, can fix the fucking mess they handed us, the mess their selective
stupidity forced down our throat.
But in the meantime? I’ll be the one telling them to
“cry harder.”
And maybe that’s mean. Maybe it’s cold. Maybe I should
be the “bigger person.”
