Only 39 days into the year, and…Help

You know that infamously meme-d soundbite: What on earth is going on in the House of Commons tonight? It replays in my head whenever something kinda crazy is going down in politics— and when isn’t that the case these days?

Though I admit, I have a pretty favourable impression of the House of Commons right now. In fact, I kinda actually, absolutely adore the place after dining there last week. —Surprisingly, very vegan friendly!! Great almondy amaretto, ginger and spiced rum cocktails too, tasted just like Christmas.

No, seriously, I did.

But let’s cast attention across the duck pond, to American politics. More specifically: Trump’s America! Because something peculiar happens when Trump holds presidency. It happened in 2016 and it’s happening again: the most disgraced people crawl their way out of obscurity, emboldened by Trump’s own brand of absurdity. Anything goes! It’s as if his very existence grants permission for the most obscene voices to claim their position under the cultural spotlight, on the stage of Twitter —or should I say, X?

And, of course, Elon—Trump’s ever-loyal cocksucker, who won’t stop kissing the base—is making sure the circus stays in town. American democracy has become a billionaire’s playground, where the rich don’t just rule the world; they buy it outright.

Which brings me to my latest unholy Twitter feed thruple: Trump, Elon, and Kanye.

At this point, it’s fair to ask—what is going on with Kanye? Off his meds? Mid-manic episode? —I understand kanye claims he doesn’t have bipolar, just autism. But his sporadic ranting sprees certainly suggest otherwise. —Or maybe he’s simply basking in the lawless freedom that Trump’s America provides (men)—where you can hop on Twitter and post the most appalling, hateful nonsense with zero repercussions. Kanye has spent the last year careening between public meltdowns and repellent tirades.

And naturally, Elon, champion of free speech reinstated Kanye’s Twitter account. Because nothing says “ethical billionaire” quite like selectively enforcing content moderation to suit your personal friendships.

Meanwhile, Trump—ever the opportunist—has largely been letting his pals do the heavy lifting when it comes to saying the most insane things online. Instead, he’s busy pretending to be a serious political candidate while focusing on the real injustices of our time—like bringing back plastic straws!

And look, I hate paper straws more than the average person, I truly do. They disintegrate into my drink, they taste like the corner of a vogue and worst of all, I have an irrational paranoia that the floating, soggy, paper, pulp particles contain undeclared calories!! Yes, I know that’s crazy, but this is my truth.

And don’t come at me with the whole “plastic straws kill marine life” argument. Because, I’m sorry, but if you eat fish and claim plastic straws are ruining the ocean, be serious. But people love performative, tokenistic activism, and switching to paper straws is just a convenient way to feel like they’re saving the planet while still happily supping on mercury-laced sushi.

—However, I still refuse to pretend that plastic straws are like, some kind of fundamental human right. There are bigger fish to fry!

Anyways.

Do you know what I do when I feel completely out of control in a world that constantly demands perfection from me? I buy dolls. Yes, dolls. Probably the most uncool, nerdy, and man-repelling thing about me. Last year alone, I spent sorry thousands on eBay, hunting them down. I’ve collected dolls since childhood—not as toys, but as artifacts. I’d stand them on their little plastic pedestals, arranging them in pristine, curated displays. I took care of them.

Of course, I tried to repress this hobby once I started having sex. No sane person invites a guy back to a bedroom lined with dolls staring at them like an audience. That’s serial-killer behavior. But then the Barbie movie happened (2023), and suddenly, doll’s weren’t just socially acceptable—they were trendy! Predating brat summer, Barbie Summer was the ultimate justification to fully indulge my obsession. Hehe. Some of my childhood collection emerged from their tissue-paper-wrapped shoe-box coffins, and my eBay addiction spiraled into something bordering on financial ruin. Oops!

But it’s not just for the sake of nostalgia.

—Working on myself feels like a never-ending renovation project. Fix one thing, and another breaks. One week it’s getting my roots done, the next it’s replacing a chipped manicure. Then there’s the laser hair removal, the starvation, the endless shopping—clothes, shoes, bags, makeup. The pursuit of perfection is relentless, and the more you consume, the emptier you feel. It’s like a consumerist eating disorder—you’re never satisfied.

But a doll? A doll is perfect straight out of the box. She doesn’t age. She doesn’t gain weight. Her manicure never chips, her hair never needs root touch-ups, her skin remains flawlessly hairless and plasticy-smoooooth. She exists in a state of frozen, effortless, unchangeable beauty. God, what I wouldn’t give to be a doll.

Maybe one day I’ll show you my doll wall…