Last week, I read a headline on Facebook: “Hawking warns we must colonize another planet in the next 100 years to ensure the survival of humanity.” Grinning, I rattled it off to my friends. We were headed to a party where, on arrival, my friends boldly announced the headline to everyone there. A grim tone set itself over the room. I didn’t understand. Personal worthlessness is hard for narcissist youths to grasp, I know, but the headline was comforting to me—a reminder of the futility of my existence. A justification of all my feelings of absolute helplessness.
The fat orange bastard keeps doing bad things. He’s not even trying to hide them from us anymore, but I doubt any real action will be taken against him, and if it is, what mechanism is in place to reverse the seemingly irreversible damage he’s done to my childlike faith in law and order? The fat orange bastard could only be replaced by a shorter, whiter one anyways. On top of that, I, along with so many other humans on this hubris infected planetary object, keep throwing out plastic water bottles. We’re doomed. I wish we could spend these next 100 years less anxious and fearful and angry, but what is there to do? Leave a voicemail for my gerrymandering representative and hope to “God” that for once, he listens and learns and votes with morals? We’re doomed. Let’s move on.
Fifty years from now, I wonder if generational researchers will write about how one unpredicted election changed the thoughts and minds of an entire generation on the cusp of self-actualization. (Or maybe just me.) ♦