Enough is enough! Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez needs to stop inserting herself into our every waking moment!
I am sick of hearing about Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez from my voice talking about Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez. I would like to spend just one day without seeking out, looking at and commenting on pictures of her everywhere she goes. It would be nice, just once, not to have to be enraged by clicking on an article that mentions her name, and then another, and then another. Just once I want to spend a day without bringing her up, unprovoked, in the middle of a discussion of an unrelated subject.
I just don’t know why people are so obsessed with her, specifically, myself. Why has she compelled me to type her name so many times that when I type the letter “A,” my phone supplies “OC"? It is a conspiracy, I think.
I don’t see why we — I, specifically — have to be talking about her all the time. She should not have made me build a special tab for my website that is dedicated to documenting her every move and outfit. The other day I was obliged to draw 17 caricatures of her, which I then hung over my dining room table. She is getting out of hand!
Just yesterday, I had to listen to an exhausting, 10-minute lecture from some idiot who would not shut up about Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, only to discover that it was myself, talking to myself. This happens every day.
Why is it that when I look into fire, her face emerges and when I gaze at the spots on a cow (She hates the cows! She wants to destroy them!), I see what appears to be her profile? How can it be that this week alone I have read 18 articles about her, two of which I did not write?
Who, I ask, who decided she should be the face of the Democratic Party that I see before my eyes when I close my eyes and also before my eyes when I open my eyes and furthermore in a framed picture hung over the foot of my bed and then again in a gold locket labeled “Nemesis” that I clutch so tightly in my sleep that my fingers lose circulation?
Does it make me happy that I have covered every wall of my living space with images of her getting into and out of cars so that I might evaluate the emissions of said cars? I don’t know what it makes me feel, exactly. It makes me clench my fist with great alarm and knock over the three unflattering busts of her I have placed on my dresser. You would think that even one of my thoughts could be about something else, but they aren’t. That seems like bias, to me! I bet that is bias.
The part of my brain where I used to store useful information such as what breeds of dog should not be given corn products is now a Times Square-style smorgasbord of billboards of her face, name and random snippets of trivia about her. She is going to be in a comic book! Her mother wants her to get married! I used to think about the deficit, I think. I don’t remember.
I blame her.
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