indiasinklings-blog

[indiasinklings-blog]

Steve Bannon & Donald Trump: A Love Story

this is a love story about steve bannon & donald trump that u should only read if ur a liberal who is ok with reading something pg-13// this is a joke and supposed to be making fun of them and their ridiculous ideas and if u don’t get that, i don’t know what to tell u

At first, Steve Bannon was resistant. “It’s Adam and Eve, not Mike and Steve,” he had repeatedly told Pence. 

But there was just something about Donald, that was different. It made it all okay. (And it wasn’t just that his dick was huge, or as Don liked to say, YUGE. Because it wasn’t. It was more probably just the mere fact that Don was President of the United States and had unprecedented power over the American people. This really tuned Steve on.)

Yet, one thing had somehow lead to another, and now, Steve was pretty sure this was love. Or rather, it might have been, had they ever been willing to admit their true feelings to each other when they weren’t completely drunk. But alas, they could never do that. That would have been gay, and Steve was as straight as an arrow, and just as sharp. That’s what he liked telling himself anyway. Steve was a true believer in both heteronormativity and his own intelligence.

“You should promote me to the National Security Council,” he had told Don one fateful night. “Okay,” said Don giggling girlishly, “I am like sooooooo drunk. I don’t even realize what I’m doing.”

Steve smiled. Don was as whipped as Jesus was by the Jews before they had brutally crucified him. It was kinda hot. After the executive order was signed, Steve allowed Don to run his tiny orange fingers all over his body. They didn’t make out though, because that would have been gay. They were as straight as the media was crooked.

Lately though, Steve was starting to get scared by how serious everything seemed to be getting. His feelings were intensifying, and he knew Don’s were too. Don was starting to become more demanding, and their relationship progressed past being purely physical to sometimes staying up all night just to watch hours of Cable TV and old, unfunny episodes of SNL.

This was not supposed be happening. Melania was already starting to get suspicious, although Steve suspected she was not ungrateful for the temporary reprieve. They would have to be more careful though; no more late nights together in the West Wing, or as Don liked to refer to it as, the OHHHH-val Office. Had their affair not been a complete secret, many people would have said that his orgasm pun was very funny. Truly terrific. But instead, his joke would never see the light of day. Sad!

“I know,” said Don, “Let’s just get rid of the EPA. Then we can have sex there everyday.” Steve sighed at his simple brilliance. There was nothing sexier than the strategic dismantling of the government, unless it was also coupled with the rejection of the mainstream scientific community.

“I know,” said Steve, “Let’s cut Medicaid and simultaneously also cut taxes on the rich! Poor people are poor because of their own laziness and ineptitude, or due to their own biological inferiority in the case of inner city people.” Trump grinned: “There’s nothing I hate more than welfare checks…. Unless it’s welfare balances.” This didn’t really make sense, but it really was another truly terrific joke.

For a while, the inside jokes built up, and the secret sex continued. They jerked each other off while making fun of the Hamilton soundtrack, and Don even gave Steve Bannon his own cute little nickname: Ban. In fact, the nickname even ended up inspiring some new foreign policy initiatives- it was both adorable AND capable of inducing severe real-world implications! A real win-win. (Don knew what that was like, because he had won both the electoral college and the popular vote!)

Everything was going great, until Don drunkenly DMed Kellyanne about the affair- Steve had forgotten to take away his android. Within seconds, Kellyanne magically appeared. She was an eight, an eight-and-a-half at most, but there was no time for anyone to make a Fellini joke, had they known who that was. Kellyanne was pissed.

She immediately went into damage control mode: “We could distract them with a made-up massacre or we could discredit the media before they get the story by calling everything fake news or…”

Don sent her away. She was always a total bitch, and always cramping his style. “We’ll just say we were doing it on behalf of the country. When you think about it, this is just our way of showing we will not let Mexican rapists aka “evil” dudes aka “bad hombres” into America; after all, America First!” This plan made total sense.

Don quickly rattled off a tweet- Kellyanne had also forgotten to take away his android.

They immediately went back to having sex. But for some reason, the fact that people might soon discover their affair kind of made the whole thing a whole lot less fun. It all felt very vanilla all of a sudden, and for once, Steve didn’t like everything being so white.

“I think we should spice things up,” said Steve, placing too much emphasis on the word spice. “Alright,” agreed Don. “I’ll send for Sean. I know for a fact he likes to alternate.”

[indiasinklings-blog]

Inspired by Lewis Carroll

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toads

Did lie and scheme in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves,

While the people wrath of rage

  "Beware the Donald Trump, my son!"

Tiny fingers that tweet, with words that lash

Beware the tweeting bird, and shun

The fascist Braggodash

  He took his constitutional sword in hand:

Long time the institutional foe he sought --

So I beseech the talk of impeach,

He stood awhile in thought.

  And, as he debated what was right

The Donald Trump, with eyes of flame,

Came blundering through the house of white,

Repealing reproductive rights as it came!

  One, two! One, two! And through and through

The due process went snicker-snack!

He left it Sad! And no longer mad,

He went galumphing back.

  "And, has thou slain the Donald Trump?

Now, let the celebration commence!

O frabjous day! Bless the EPA!”

But beware the Mike Pence.

  `Twas brillig, and the slithy toads

Did lie and scheme in the wabe;

All mimsy were the borogoves,

While the people wrath outrage.

[indiasinklings-blog]

Samantha Shade: Niffler Private Eye

The Case of the Maltese Hippogriff

A disgruntled centaur walked into the bar. Had this been a lame joke, the bartender would have said, “Why the long face?” But this isn’t yet, so instead, the bartender just brought him the usual, a Southern whiskey with two ice cubes.

The centaur gave him a half smile in gratitude and remarked that Mars was exceptionally bright tonight. The bartender immediately understood what this was code for and disappeared behind a curtain leading to the secret back room where I had made my lair.

He explained the situation to me, and I sighed dramatically while also simultaneously nodding my assent. I would take the case, I said, after making fun of his shoes; they don’t call me Samantha Shade for nothing.

If I’m being honest with myself though, nobody actually calls me that. Samantha is apparently too many syllables for the general populace to handle, so they default to a diminutive nickname.

The name’s Sam, Sam Shade.

The centaur trotted in, a tiny bit happier, probably because he knew I was on the case. He still looked mostly depressed though. He also could have done with a face lift, or at the very least, some wrinkle cream. He was very old, which is also conveniently exactly my type.

It’s not easy being a Niffler. You hook up with a couple of old beasts who just happen to peacefully pass away in their sleep, and suddenly you can’t leave your secret lair without people mouthing Kanye lyrics at you.

I’m only a gold digger in the literal sense, not a metaphorical one. Fortunately, my biological talent for sniffing out metals does come in handy as a private eye; my snout’s solved plenty of cases of missing jewelry and stolen diamonds. In fact, I’m kind of a rock star, in the detective world. (Provided, of course, that the rocks are shiny.)

“I’m looking for a Maltese Hippogriff,” the centaur explained. Legend has it, that the Maltase Hippogriff, which was secretly solid gold underneath, was worth at least two million galleons. This could be my biggest case yet.

“Go on, Pony Bony,” I said, sipping on some Sprite. (Kind of weird that a former alcoholic would make their secret lair in the back room of a bar, but I believe we can’t just run away from our problems.)

He downed his whiskey and continued. “The Maltese Hippogriff has been lost for generations, allegedly stolen by pirates time after time. But, I think I finally have a clue to its whereabouts.” He whipped out a map; for some reason, this was kind of hot.

“I was cleaning out some boxes in the attic, and found some old love letters between my pirate grandfather and his secret lover, the muggle Princess Amy Sedaris. In them, he mentioned that he had the world’s most valuable gift to give her; of course, this was before he broke up with her to marry my grandmother when he tuned 102.”

I rolled my eyes. I forgot how long centaurs lived; maybe he wasn’t my type after all.

This case, however, seemed right up my alley. We decided to have the bartender, good ol’ Aberforth, apparate us to the location depicted in the map. It really sucks not being able to apparate on your own! Abe seemed kind of curious about the fact that we wanted to go to the Little Hangleton graveyard, but he let it go with a shrug. After a few moments, we had arrived.

It was time to put my nose to good use. I started sniffing around for clues. Pony Boy (I really should have bothered to ask him his name!) got distracted by a bunch of weird stars in the sky, and he was no help. Abe, meanwhile, seemed more preoccupied by some ransacked grave of a muggle- some dude named Tom Riddle? - than in helping us find the fabled hippogriff. Just like Celine Dion, I was all by myself. I took it in stride.

Unfortunately, my precious nose was being of no help. Wherever the hippogriff was, it was buried so far underground that even my sensitive schnozz was of no use. I was going to have to tear up the whole graveyard looking for it, it seemed.

“There’s got to be a better way,” I thought. I did not want to have to tunnel my way through dirt and bones; it would ruin my meticulously groomed fur coat.

Suddenly, despite not being shiny, a grave caught my eye. Probably because it was very extravagant, as if royalty was buried there. I checked it out and read that it belonged to a muggle named Amy Sedaris.

“Ex marks the spot,” I chuckled to myself. A little bit of pirate humor.

I started digging, but all I found was some dumb hay. It was only gold in color; no wonder I couldn’t smell it. This whole adventure was a waste of forty-two minutes of my time. Who but a centaur would think hay was the most valuable thing in the world! Idiots. Luckily I charged 10 galleons a minute, so there was still that.

Pony Boy, at least, seemed happy. I barely recognized him without his forlorn facial expression; he looked like a real horse of a different color. He was still grey though; he hadn’t actually changed colors. "This is some premium Grade-O hay,” he said grinning. Now, he was the one sniffing it.

Abe apparated us back to the bar where the excited centaur promised to buy us drinks. Pony Boy handed me a coke, still smiling widely. “Here ya go, soda pop,” he said. I was still annoyed about everything, but I decided to let it go… he looked so freaking happy.

“Stay gold, Pony Boy,” I said, and I decided maybe he was my type after all.

[indiasinklings-blog]

Election & Empathy

On several occasions Tuesday night, I had to stop myself from throwing up, and it wasn’t because of all the wine. I was in disbelief, and according to my Twitter feed, admittedly a comfortable bubble of liberal-leaning friends and celebrities, the rest of America was too. Political pundits on major networks tried to reassure me, “She doesn’t need Florida to win, only he does.” My housemate from Pennsylvania insisted that there was absolutely no way his home state would betray the ideals he was raised with growing up there. FiveThirtyEight gave Hillary Clinton a 70% chance of winning the race Monday night, and I remember watching as the odds dropped to 50-50, and I cried because Trump was suddenly a coin flip away from winning the election. Two hours later, I was crying, now because the election couldn’t be decided by a random toss-up.

With the notable exception of Michael Moore, nobody really predicted Trump would win the presidency. Nobody seemed to have genuinely prepared for this political reality, and people lashed out in fury and fear, trying to internalize the consequences of a Trump presidency. Protests were organized and petitions encouraging faithless electors were signed. People were hurt and upset and angry and afraid, myself included. I do not want to minimize anybody’s feelings or trauma, especially when this election was partially won because people spent months minimizing their identities. However, I do think America will survive these next four years. I do not think every American will though. It comes from a place of privilege to be able to know that you personally will survive intact.

Donald Trump is no longer just an inane sounding board for outdated ideas of white supremacy and sexual violence; he is also the President-Elect of the United States. This is bad. The fact that Donald Trump was elected president validates, in the eyes of some of his supporters, the vitriolic rhetoric that got him there. We’ve seen 200+ cases of hate crimes emerge in the past few days; Black students at the University of Pennsylvania were threatened with lynching, immigrant children are being told that they don’t belong and to go back to where they came from, Muslims are afraid to wear their hijabs and to peacefully practice their religion. Not to mention, if Obamacare is gutted, people might not be able to afford life-saving treatments or preventative care. And don’t get me started on Global Warming and the future of our entire planet.

Hillary Clinton started off her concession speech by acknowledging both the past and the future. “Last night, I congratulated Donald Trump and offered to work with him on behalf of our country. I hope that he will be a successful president for all Americans.” She accepted the results of what had happened the night before (which might not have happened the other way around!) and she expressed hope for the future. “Donald Trump is going to be our president. We owe him an open mind and the chance to lead.” Hillary made it clear that she was not discounting Donald Trump’s presidency right off the bat. She was going to give him a chance, while also continuing to fight for what she believed was right. I too hope that he will be a good president.

The media is saying that polls failed because the typical Democratic coalition of minority and millennial voters didn’t turn out in the numbers needed, and that the white working class favored Trump. In the past few days, I’ve talked to several Trump supporters, in person and online, who genuinely do not understand why voting for Trump is so incomprehensible to somebody like me. To me, these voters cared more about sending a message to the political establishment than they cared about the lives and livelihood of some of my friends and family. But to them, it is equally as unfathomable that I would vote for Hillary Clinton, somebody who they don’t trust or like, who hasn’t made them feel like their voices are being heard.

A lot of my friends’ parents voted for Trump, not because of his bigotry and racism, but despite this. They truly believe we need an outsider- a self-made businessman- in charge of America. They thought he would help them find jobs and “make great deals.” They believe premiums for Obamacare are too high, and that we shouldn’t interfere in Syria. They believe abortions ought to be illegal but guns should remain legal. They believe they’ve been shouting for their lives, and that the so-called “coastal elites” and “Washington insiders” aren’t listening to them. This is not me trying to justify their votes; this is me trying to understand them.

Understanding them does not mean agreeing with them; I will never endorse or ignore hateful speech or intentions. I do not think it was okay to vote for somebody who has made overwhelmingly racist and sexist remarks, even if people felt like they voted for him despite this. I do not think it is okay to consider racism an acceptable cost. I do not think it was okay to vote for somebody who, since being elected, has criticized freedom of speech and freedom of press. There is a special type of entitlement reserved for those who voted for Trump. However, now more than ever, might be the time to try to empathize. I do think that there are legitimate, important concerns being expressed by some pro-Trump supporters. These concerns deserve to be addressed. I think we should stand up to the greed of Wall Street and corporate America. I think we should have the courage to take on drug companies and big banks. A significant portion of Americans voted for Donald Trump, and let’s try to understand why. 

As Atticus Finch would phrase it, “You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view . . . until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.” Of course, this also comes from a place of privilege; after all, Tom Robinson tried to empathize with Mayella Ewell, and it cost him his life. But maybe people who are in positions to listen without getting hurt should try to engage in some form of meaningful discourse. Maybe we should try to pop the bubbles, so that the next time this happens, the world doesn’t feel like it was unexpectedly punched in the gut. Maybe we should listen to each other so that we can better help each other, so that we can better teach each other. 

I think there are limits to empathy. Do we have to empathize with bigots? Harper Lee asks us this question in her To Kill a Mockingbird follow up, Go Set A Watchmen. Is empathy even enough? Can we really expect to achieve salvation through hearts and minds? I don’t know the answer, but I believe that we at least have to try. It is impossible to bring someone to your side of an argument if you can’t even bring them to the table to talk.

I do recognize that there are complex institutional factors and biases at play, and that talking to each other alone isn’t enough to fix our country. But maybe it can be a launching point for action. Together, let’s work to build a better world.

Let’s not forget what was said though; let’s not normalize bigotry or pretend it is okay that hate crimes are being committed in Donald Trump’s name. Let’s not give him a free pass, just because he’s now president. If anything, we need to hold him to a higher standard and hold him more accountable for his words and actions. Let’s hope for the best, but use our own words and actions to remind ourselves, and each other, that Donald Trump is not the new normal. Let’s use our words and actions to bring about change. But, let’s remember that change only happens not just when people are willing to talk, but also when people are willing to listen.

[indiasinklings-blog]

A Harry Potter & Stranger Things Mashup

“BUT Harry,” 21-year-old Hermione said, “We can’t just go back in time and stop Hawkins Laboratory from opening up the portal to the Upside Down! That would be completely illegal- we would be breaking like a million wizarding laws, not to mention the fact that we don’t want to potentially set a bad example for our future kids one day.”

Harry sighed. This is not what he needed to hear right now. In his heart, he knew Hermione was probably right, she usually was. But he was bored af now that Voldemort was defeated, and this wasn’t the time to be rational. He wanted adventure. He NEEDED it. And maybe there was some truth to Rita Skeeter’s new book, Harry Potter: Hero or Horcrux? - as if the two had to be mutually exclusive- about him having a hero complex. He refused to believe it though. He wasn’t just some ordinary straight white guy with a hang-up for pretending to be Atticus Finch, he was Harry fucking Potter.

 At this very moment, he kind of just wanted to slap Hermione in the face. However, this would be uncharacteristic of him and would surely disillusion millions of young people everywhere.

So instead, he slapped Hermione faux-graciously on the back and told her he admired her consistent emotional intelligence. Hermione beamed and scurried off somewhere, probably to a library or something.

Now that she was gone, it was time to put his plan into motion. He called up his trusty sidekick and sometimes-comic-relief-friend Ron, who he knew would immediately be on board with whatever he suggested. It was so convenient that the Wizarding World had finally decided to appropriate cell phones for their own personal use. Of course, nobody had been smart enough to magically disable read receipts- it was hard being a 20-something wizard.

Ron immediately apparated over. “What are we doing in Indiana?” he asked, staring at all the corn and tractors around him. Harry told him all about his newly conceived plan to stop the Demogorgon from terrorizing muggle communities in Indiana back in the '80s. As expected, Ron was totally up for it. 

 The bullet point version of Harry's plan was this:

Steal a magical special time turner from former death eater, Theodore Nott, who was stupid enough to run his mouth off about it when he was drunk at the Hog's Head prior to being sentenced to Azkaban

Use the time turner to travel back to 1980s Hawkins, Indiana 

Stop the evil Dr. Brenner from using a kidnapped wizard child as a weapon and making her open a portal from a different dimension 

Get The Clash to sign a copy of their latest record if there was time to spare 

Easy as pie, Harry thought. Now, he just really wanted some pie; it was a little known fact that Harry Potter actually really loved pie. He thought about summoning Kreacher and demanding some, but the house elf wasn’t a particularly good baker- or a particularly good cobbler either, not all elf stereotypes are true. He was, however, Harry realized in a sudden stroke of inspiration, good at getting into places he wasn’t supposed to be.

“Kreacher!” Harry bellowed. Kreacher materialized in front of him and gave a little nod; they were on decent terms now that Harry had stopped being such a dick to him. “I need you to break into the old Nott house and steal his time turner for me. Do you think you could do that?” Kreacher bowed and disappeared and had Cary Elwes been playing him in a movie, he would have said As you wish. Ron high-fived Harry on his genius-ness. Everything was going according to plan.

Suddenly, Hermione appeared out of nowhere, and this was definitely not part of the plan. Dammit, Harry thought, her SPEW senses must have been tingling. She glared at the both of them, which sucked more for Ron, because this meant he wasn’t going to get laid tonight.

“What did you two do?” she demanded haughtily.

Ron sheepishly explained, and her scowl confirmed that sex was absolutely off the table.

But before she had time to really go off on them, Kreacher magically appeared- literally because he had apparated, but also in a metaphorical sense. Harry and Ron breathed deep sighs of relief; they were saved by the spell. (Editorial note: Is it considered a spell when a house elf apparates? For the purposes of this story, let’s just say it is.)

Hermione’s face softened upon looking at Kreacher, and she immediately started pestering him with questions: Are you hurt? Were you able to get in okay? Did you run into any trouble? What do you think is a fair and equitable amount for the House Elf Minimum Wage Act?

Kreacher ignored her and handed the time turner over to Harry, made a grimace in the general direction of Hermione, and disappeared again.

“Well, we’ve got the time turner now,” Harry remarked. “We might as well use it.” And with a couple of swift turns, the trio found themselves back in the age of peak Spielberg movies.

Hermione was still not amused. “This is ridiculous,” she exclaimed. “We have no idea even how to even find Eleven. In fact, on a scale of 1 to 10, this plan is an 11.” The boys looked confused.

“One being the best, ten being the worst,” she quickly clarified. “But that’s not the point. The point is, how are we supposed to track down Eleven when we know nothing about her, except for what ended up happening in that one muggle documentary series? Did you guys think this through at all?” Ugh. Boys.

“Oh hey,” Ron interjected, “We can go to my family for help. My mum has a distant cousin out here somewhere, married a muggle though, but he’s probably keen to talk to some magical folk. This doesn’t seem to be a particularly thriving wizarding community.” Even in the 80s, Indiana seemed to solely be filled with tractors and corn. “Besides, how hard could they be to find, I mean, how many redheaded families could there possibly be in this town?”

The answer was one. A short while later, the trio found themselves knocking on the door of the Holland house. A frazzled ginger woman opened the door vigorously with a look of hope on her face that immediately faded when she realized her prayers hadn’t been answered. “I’m sorry,” Mrs. Holland said, “I was hoping you were my daughter. She ran away a couple days ago… Who are you?”

Suddenly, something clicked in Hermione’s brain. It was as if a tiny lightning bolt had suddenly struck her square in the head, sparking an idea, but leaving behind no cool scar like Harry’s. “Mrs. Holland,” Hermione asked tentatively, “What’s your daughter’s name?”

“Barbara.” She replied curtly. “But she goes by Barb.”

“It’s been great talking to you,” Hermione said, elbowing Harry and Ron out of the doorway. “But we’ve got to get going.”

“Tell your husband that friends of Molly Prewett came by,” Ron added, as Hermione pushed him out the door.

It was only after they were a reasonable distance away that Hermione did what she did best: she explained things.

“Don’t you see what’s going on!”

They clearly didn’t. “We’re too late- the portal has already been opened, the Monster is already here!”

As if in confirmation, a tree nearby shuddered and rippled as if it had recently been a tear in space-time exploited by such a monster. Hermione, being exceedingly clever, took a moment to wonder to herself if being this close to a temporal distortion would affect the magical powers of their own time turner, perhaps rendering it unable to work for periods longer than five minutes in the future. She really was incredibly bright, it just usually only manifested itself in a very book-smart type of way. Like sure, she was smart, but did she know how to deal with real world problems like gangs on the street or how to change a flat tire?

“Well, we’ll just have to kill the Monster then,” declared Harry, returning her to reality. This was the kind of action he had clearly been itching for. Hermione half-wondered if this had been his plan all along.

“We can’t,” she hissed. “It would change everything. Eleven defeats the Monster, sacrificing herself in the process. There are witnesses and everything. It’s the only way. We can’t change history, Harry. I’m sorry.”

“But what if she didn’t have to die? What if we’re supposed to save her, just like we saved Buckbeak and Sirius?” Of course, they had only saved Sirius temporarily, but still. Harry clenched his fists in determination; it kind of made him look like a dorky kickboxer. “Shouldn’t we at least try?”

Ron half-nodded in agreement. It was obvious that he agreed with Harry, but he also didn’t want to piss off his girlfriend any more than he already had.

“What if,” Harry exclaimed, “that if instead of dying, she was merely transported somewhere else. What if, what if we transformed the Monster into a portkey!”

“What then?” questioned Hermione. “Eleven just spends the rest of her life hiding in the woods somewhere? Presumed to be dead by everyone except maybe one odd soul who still leaves Eggos out for her in the hope that she will return some day? And we wipe our memories of this entire incident and return the time turner to a dangerous death eater so we don’t have to live with the guilt of interfering with time in such an irresponsible and meaningful way?”

“Well,” said Ron in an obvious moment of comic relief, “Stranger things have happened.”

[indiasinklings-blog]

I’m a Feminist and I Still Shave My Legs

They say forty is the new thirty. I don’t know exactly who they are, but they seem to know what they’re talking about! Of course, I’m only twenty-four. And I’ve only been twenty-four for the past four years. I honestly think I’m in the prime of my life right now. I’m single, hot, and working in fashion in the great metropolis of New York City!

Of course, my last boyfriend broke up with me two years ago, and my most recent tinder hookup said I still wasn’t over him, but what does he know?? His entire tinder bio is just emojis, like what does eggplant – crying face- frog even mean? Besides, Ethan and I are totally going to get back together- he called me just yesterday.

And sure, I’ve gained a few pounds since my last twenty-fourth birthday, but the homeless man down the street with the Chris-Hemsworth-in-Thor-style hair STILL whistled at me when I dropped my cruelty-free vegan lipstick last week. Of course, I glared at him because I’m a feminist. And yes, you can be a feminist and still wear lipstick. It’s called owning your sexuality. I am a feminist, and I still shave my legs. But I do it for me, that’s the important part.

And maybe copy editing at a fashion magazine isn’t a good use of my overpriced self-designed journalism degree from a semi-prestigious liberal arts college, but it pays the bills. Of course, I still live with my mother, but I pay for my own cell phone data and gym membership, and that really adds up over time. I like to think I’m like Carrie from Sex and the City or whoever the new Carrie equivalent is on Girls. I haven’t watched Girls yet, but the twenty-four-year-old barista at Starbucks says she’s like, obsessed.

They say being a parent is the greatest joy in the world.  Oy vey, I don’t know who they are, but sometimes I question their logic. I love my daughter, Rachel, I really do- even though she never calls her grandparents anymore. But I just never expected her to move back home after I spent thousands and thousands of dollars on her Bryn Mawr education, that’s all. She said it was only temporary, just until she got back on her feet. But now it’s been nearly two years, and she purchased a ridiculous water bed at a garage sale last week, so there doesn’t seem to be a clear end in sight.

God knows it’s not always easy being a single mother. I just wish Rachel would grow up a little and help out around the house more, that’s all. And, she’s always changing her mind about this and that. She lacks direction in life. Her bubba would never have put up with all this foolishness. Her bubba would have kicked her to the curb. Rachel needs to gain some perspective.

Like the other day, she declared out of nowhere that she was suddenly going to be a feminist. (I think maybe this had something to do with her exceedingly liberal work environment? She’s always coming home with new granola recipes and pamphlets on ethical fashion choices.) And that’s really nice and all, but being a feminist doesn’t pay the bills. It’s bad enough that the wage gap already exists, but it’s hard to make it on seventy-seven cents per dollar when you also have a twenty-eight-year-old daughter living at home.

I was going to retire in a few years and move to Boca, and now I think I’ll be trapped in this tiny New York apartment for eternity, my own personal Shtetl. Maybe at least I can use the Florida money to go see Hamilton- I hear it’s the rest of America’s Fiddler on the Roof.

They say, among competing hypotheses, the one with the fewest assumptions should be selected. In this case, they is the fourteenth century logician, William of Occam.

Hi! I’m Rachel’s razor, not to be confused with Occam’s razor, although I’m sure he would have been a great pal of mine. He really believed in the simple life, and ya know, that’s basically what I’m all about.

Rachel tends to complicate things unnecessarily though. Last month, she told her mother, out of the blue, that she didn’t need to shave her legs anymore because she was going to be a second-wave feminist.  First of all, the second-wave died before she was born, and secondly, Rachel always puts herself first. What actually happened, is that her tinder hookup told her that she wasn’t over her ex yet, and so she decided to break it off. And what’s the point of shaving your legs in winter if nobody’s going to see them, right?? The simplest answer is usually the correct solution.

Within a week, she was back to using and abusing me, just because some cute homeless guy smiled at her or something. Don’t believe her third-wave feminist bullshit.

And just yesterday, she texted her ex-who-she’s-very-clearly-not-over-yet that she had a close shave at work and she just really needed a hug. He called her immediately, after seeing her snapchat story of her leg wrapped tightly in an ace bandage. Way to be overdramatic.

In reality, she snuck me into her purse that morning when she didn’t have time to shave AND talk to her favorite Starbuck’s barista. She proceeded to shave in the all-gender restroom during her lunch break, using hand soap and paper towels. Never have I been so embarrassed in my life. Although, I was pleasantly surprised by the inclusivity of her work environment! And sure, maybe her ankle bled for a minute when I nicked it, but it was an accident, and nothing a regular band aid couldn’t fix. The moral here though, is that when you hear close shave, think razors, not freak apocalyptic work accidents.  Okay, Ethan??

[indiasinklings-blog]

My Graduation Speech to the W&M Class of 2016

The last thing my dad said to me when he dropped me off at college for the first time was that he hoped I would grow up to be president. I was eighteen years old, about to start college, and had watched West Wing way too many times, so this basically seemed like exactly what I was destined to do. Since then, I’ve also decided to be a doctor, a television writer, a vegan celebrity chef, and a high-class companion for old people who definitely don’t want to have any sex but will pay me money just to sit by their pools and eat ice cream all day. But I’ll never forget the possibilities that existed in that moment, when I arrived on campus for the first time, and realized that someday, I might grow up to be president.

A lot of things have changed since freshman year, and not just my future ambitions. Do you remember the last time we all stood together like this? It was Convocation. We wore dresses and ties. Some people wore heels because we were freshman and didn’t know better yet. Other people weren’t even here, but they found us, and now they’re important members of our family. We high fived, we cheered, and some of the people we met are now our best friends, four years later. I remember gagging at the taste of my first beer that night, and swearing off it forever. That lasted about three weeks, sorry mom and dad! What I remember most though, is how I felt.

I had just started college, and the possibilities seemed infinite. I remember being excited to leave behind high school and its meaningless cliques and insecurities, because it wasn’t until my second week of college that I realized that all these things didn’t magically disappear over one summer. I didn’t know what I was going to major in, what clubs I would join, or what cereal I wanted to eat for dinner. Everything was new and exciting and big and humbling.

The last thing my mom said to me when she dropped me off at college for the first time was that college was going to be the best four years of my life. And I’ve definitely had an amazing four years. I want to be clear though, she was wrong. Because our college experience doesn’t end right here, right now at graduation or even later this week when pack our stuff up into cars and U-Hauls and move across the country. The best four years of our lives aren’t behind us; they’re just part of us. We’ve been through a lot together, and the memories we’ve shared, and the friends we’ve made, will be with us for the rest of our lives. And there are just so many wonderful and exciting possibilities that exist out there, that it honestly seems presumptuous to decide that’ve we already experienced the pinnacle of human happiness at only twenty-two years old.

We’re twenty-two. Or maybe we’re not. But, we’ve all got the rest of our lives ahead of us. We’re graduating college. We’re William & Mary students. We’re smart; we’re capable. Maybe we’re in love, maybe we’re scared, maybe we’re going to grad school, or maybe we have no idea what we’re doing. But we’re all in this together, and we will have so many incredible adventures and opportunities. So, Class of 2016, let’s go exploring. Maybe I’ll end up president, and then, at least, my dad will have been right.

[indiasinklings-blog]

Strangers on a Train

“Do you know what the most important word to say is, when you’re making your way down 61 flights of stairs in the pitch black, with smoke in your lungs, and people crammed like sardines?”

No, I said automatically, without pausing to think for even a second because I was too curious. What?

“Landing,” he replied. He paused for a moment. “We had our hands on each other’s backs like the world’s most frightened conga line- we were scared shitless. We were all coughing. Nobody could see a thing. But every time the person in front of you hit a landing, he let you know, so you didn’t fall. In that way, we made it out alive.”

The boys across from me on the train didn’t say anything, but they were paying attention again. I hugged my knees closer together, and closed my eyes for a second. Wow, I said finally. I didn’t know what else to say.

I think the man sensed that because he laughed. “You know,” he said, with a smile, “I really shouldn’t be telling you this because it’s pretty disgusting, but I sneezed smoke out of my nose for weeks!”

I laughed too, not because I thought this was that funny- if anything, I think this detail scared me the most. It made everything seem more real. But I could tell he wanted me to. “So,” I said, “why are you going back to New York tonight?”

The train car we were in was pretty empty. We still had at least a half hour until we got to Penn Station. It was just me, the man, and two boys about my age- actually, one was a year older than me, and the other was four years younger at eighteen. Another man had been in our compartment, but he had gotten off at Brick Church.

We had all started talking because the man had noticed the large, oddly shaped bags at the boys’ feet. When queried, it turned out, that they were headed into the city for their fencing lessons. The younger one, a freshman at NJIT, went in three times a week to fake-fight dozens of strangers. His friend was home for winter break, and so he was bringing him along. The man and the boys had chatted about fencing (“I grew up watching the Zorro movies! I’m Facebook friends with the actor’s daughter!” the man had said); I had stayed quiet. I had thought it odd, at the time, that in a mostly empty compartment this man had chosen to sit directly next to me. But, now, I started to realized, maybe he just genuinely liked people. He liked talking to them, he enjoyed learning about them, maybe he even just preferred being near them.

He joked around with the boys- “You know, he said, I’m probably even older than you two combined. Maybe even you three!” He jabbed a finger at me. The boys revealed their ages. He said he was sixty-one. “Nope,” I said, speaking for the first time, “I’m twenty-two.” He turned and smiled at me.

The two boys quickly began a separate, indistinguishable conversation, looking pointedly only at each other and speaking softly. It was clear they were no longer interested in what the older man had to say, or maybe they just felt weird having a face-to-face conversation with a stranger when we’re so used to hiding behind our screens- I had noticed them fake texting throughout our conversation. The man looked disappointed.

I felt sorry for him. It’s a weird feeling, feeling sorry for somebody so many years older than you, and for something as trivial and commonplace as a slight rejection. Sometimes, I feel as if I’m in a perpetual state of minor rejection- No, you did not get that interview; Sorry, I can’t give you a ride home; I can definitely grab lunch next week instead! Sure, the man’s face had fallen, but it wasn’t my responsibility to fix that, I reminded myself. He was a grown man, and I remember thinking that obviously worse things must have happened to him in his life. In fact, maybe he would just think it was weird if I suddenly inserted myself into a conversation. I was quiet for a minute, before awkwardly turning to face him.

“What do you for a living,” I asked. His face seemed to visibly brighten, but possibly that was just my imagination.

“I coach lacrosse at a private school in Washington township,” he said proudly. “I live in New Brunswick, and I’ve only missed practice twice. And one time it was because of my anniversary, and my wife wanted to see a play and do drinks. My last name is Flannigan,” he laughed, “I like to drink.” I laughed too.

He asked me what I studied. “Oh, just government and economics,” I said, trying to keep the regret out of my voice. I had already had many conversations about this with my parents, I didn’t need to discuss my life choices with a stranger on a train. “Before I retired and started coaching lacrosse, I worked in finance for years!” he told me. “In fact, I was there when the World Trade Center was bombed for the first time.” He launched into his story.

When I asked him why he was going back to New York, he said he was going to the Knicks game with one of his sons. But first, he was meeting a friend at a pub. He turned to the boys, who had stopped whispering to each other. “My last name is Flannigan,” he said, for the second time in five minutes, “I like to drink.” This time, I think we all laughed.

[indiasinklings-blog]

DINO & THE DICK – A SEXY NIXON STORY

DISCLAIMER:

Once upon a time, my friends paid money to a charity in exchange for me writing them a custom story.  They asked for this. (a sexy Nixon story: read at your own risk//not 4 kids)

Ever since running into him on Airforce 1, I knew something was different about the man.

Richard Nixon. Dark haired, tall, intelligent, relentlessly narcissistic, President of the fucking United States— all the traits that I generally look for in someone. There was no doubt in my mind that he was unique, just like me. And on top of it all, when we first looked into each other’s eyes, when I soared past his Boeing 6969 as he flew across the Arabian Sea on his way back from China, something special ignited between us. An undeniable spark. The first flash of romance.

It’s not always easy being a pterodactyl. And Kermit thinks he has it hard. Despite growing up at the same time as the dinosaurs, somehow I’m not actually a dinosaur?? These silly humans. Next thing you know, and they’ll be saying Pluto isn’t a planet.

Dick was different though, I could tell. He wasn’t like the rest of those cotton-headed ninny muggins. He didn’t immediately freak the fuck out when he saw me glide past his tiny airplane window. He didn’t summon his secret service agents or call NASA or scream like an Edvar Munch painting. He didn’t recline back in his seat, like a douchebag, depriving his secretary of valuable leg room. He just stared. The intensity of his deep, penetrating dark brown eyes left an imprint on my soul forever that day.

Our deeper connection, one beyond friendship, was solidified in the weeks that followed. It was mostly texting at first. Did you know that Al Gore’s grandfather first invented texting in 1939? But everyone got distracted by Hitler invading Poland, and so it didn’t really catch on until much later.

What are you wearing? He would always text.

Nothing. I would respond. It’s so hard to find clothes with good wing holes nowadays. I usually just didn’t bother.

Send me a pic. I begged.

He sent me a selfie, showing off his natural, gorgeous smile. My body ached with desire, and a wave of pleasure tingled down my spine. I wanted him. I needed him.

Not that kind of pic. I said, pleading with him.

Every pic of me is a Dick pic. He responded. I think he thought he was funny. But in that moment, I kind of hated him just a little bit.

But as our texting turned into snapchats (Al Gore’s father invented snapchat in the 1950s), my pangs of passion blossomed into something more.

In turns out, he had the same feelings as I did. I was in love with Richard Nixon, and he was in love with me.

 I give him all the credit. Shortly after we confessed our feelings, Richard decided to just do it.  He invited me over. We couldn’t go to the White House of course, without provoking questions, and the Marriot was all booked up at the time. We decided to break into some office building. I think it was called the Watergate? I remember thinking it was all very romantic.

At our first moment of privacy, he went in for the metaphorical kill. He kissed me full on the lips, passionately and without any warning. It was the result of years of hinting to each other so many times that our intense texting/snapchat relationship was more than a friendship.

And damn, did it feel good. I cawed with pleasure. I didn’t care who heard me.

I wanted more. “What are you doing?” he said, with his eyes, not his lips. But I understood. His lips were still on mine.

“Just trust me, Babe,” I said, caressing his tiny, human ears and cupping his body in my wings, as if I was the swaddle and he was the baby. He liked it. He liked feeling dominated.

He hesitated. But then nodded with resolve.

“Okay,” he said. “I do have an Open Door policy.”

I made my way into him. Slowly and deliberately, until I succumbed to my true emotional state and lost all control. I launched my missiles and for once, he didn’t call for détente.

“This is amazing,” he said. “We should have done this years ago. I feel young again, not like the dinosaurs we are.” Again, I kind of hated him for a second, but I was too overcome with desire to do anything about it. We started making out again, so I could force him to shut up.

Feelings of warmth and happiness overtook me as he worked his hands and mouth over me. This was great, but there was one thing that I knew would be better.

“Lay down,” I commanded him. I was the Commander in Chief now.

I pushed him onto his back and put his legs in the air. The floor was hard on my knees, and he was hard too.

He started to moan.

“Wait,” he said suddenly. I stopped, because every pterodactyl knows that sex is sexier (not to mention actually legal) when there is consent.

“What’s wrong, Babe?” I asked nervously. My wings started to quake a bit in fear.

“Nothing,” he said sighing. “I just want to take a minute, to remember this moment forever.” He closed his eyes.

I sighed in relief.

“I think that can be arranged,” I said, whipping out all my recording devices from my overnight bag. He opened his eyes and smiled that wide smile at me. I melted a little.

I opened my mouth wide too.

“You make me so happy,” he squealed.

“Well, they don’t call me Deep Throat for nothing,” I said. “Just don’t ever break up with me,” I said in a cleverly foreshadowing way.

And the rest is history.

[indiasinklings-blog]

Are you Frankenstein or Frankenstein’s monster?

We get it. It can be pretty confusing sometimes, no matter how many times your 10th grade English teacher felt the need to correct you. Take this quiz to help you determine if you’re Dr. Victor Frankenstein or if you’re actually just Frankenstein’s monster.

1)      When people first see you, what is their initial reaction?

A.      I’ve been told on more than one occasion that I give off a Mad Scientist sort of vibe? But now, I tend to avoid people and have cut myself off from the rest of the world in order to pursue a life solely devoted to reflection and revenge.

B.       Generally, they run away. Usually they scream in terror first though. In the movies, for some reason, they generally whip out pitchforks and torches. I guess I’ll just have to wait for Suicide Squad to come out on DVD.

  2)      When you were five years old, did your parents adopt the orphaned daughter of an Italian nobleman with whom you later fell in love?

A.      My poor sweet Elizabeth.

B.       No, my creator abandoned me and refused to build me a mate, even though love was all I ever really wanted. It’s quite depressing actually.

  3)      Was your family viciously killed off, one by one?

A.      There was William, then Justine, then Elizabeth… I promise you, I will do everything in my power to avenge them.

B.       My would-be wife was killed, if that counts.

  4)      What is the secret of life?

A.      The secret of life requires years of tireless work and intense study of anatomy and of death and decay. Also chemistry and good sewing skills.

B.       Be pretty. Pretty people have it made in life. (Figuratively, I don’t mean literally because that did not work out in my case.)

  5)      Did you ever befriend a blind man?

A.      The world may have been blind to my guilt and shame, but alas, I am not.

B.       I mean, he was nice, but his family was kind of annoying.

  6)      Do you consider yourself a monster?

A.      I don’t know, but it is a question I must ask myself every day as I begin a journey of self-repentance and introspection.

B.       I think the REAL monster here is the mainstream media and their horrific portrayal of monsters as merely one dimensional characters. I mean, I’ve read John Milton and I’m not afraid of fire, but these Hollywood types can’t seem to get it right.