On Voting in America
So one of the most profound comments on routine chores that I've ever encountered was, hilariously, the Pickle Rick episode of "Rick & Morty," where (after a lot of shenanigans have already ensued) this therapist absolutely lays Rick out:
"I have no doubt that you would be bored senseless by therapy, the same way I'm bored when I brush my teeth and wipe my ass. Because the thing about repairing, maintaining, and cleaning is: it's not an adventure. There's no way to do it so wrong you might die. It's just work. And the bottom line is some people are okay going to work and some people, well, some people would rather die. Each of us gets to choose."
I think about this at least once a week — usually while I'm doing my laundry or sweeping or some other task that needs doing and won't get me anything more than clean clothing or a dog-hair-free floor. There's no Pulitzer for wiping down your microwave or scrubbing your toilet; no one's awarding you for getting all the dishes out of the sink. At best you have the satisfaction of crossing it off your list.
Voting is very much the same (and I'm talking about the US here, as an American). Sure, you sometimes get a sticker; but nobody's going to cheer for you. There's no adventure here, no potential for anything more than crossing something off of a list. It's a chore, something that needs doing in order to repair, maintain, and yes even clean. So I get why people don't like doing it.
And I've decided I don't give a shit.
Do it anyway. Your country takes astonishingly little from you — taxes, the once-in-a-blue-moon jury duty, and a theoretical draft that hasn't been used in over half a century and likely will never be again — but it asks you (asks! not requires! not demands!) to vote once a year. It's not always easy; especially in conservative states, the impediments to vote can be ridiculous. But it is once a year and unlike in our nation's all-too-recent past, you will not die if you do it.
In fact, the worst outcome from voting these days is that the person or issue that you vote for loses — but you won't know if they lose until after the election. Polls are less accurate now, for a whole host of reasons; you cannot know until after the election who or what will win. This makes your vote more valuable than possibly ever before.
Use that power. Not because it's exciting or even rewarding, but because your vote is what keeps our country's metaphorical teeth from falling out and our metaphorical ass from stinking.
Brush, wipe, vote.
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The girls finally talked things over with a little help.
Their "mentors" also seem to have things to talk about…
Listen, I don't know who came up with the idea for this ship, but I think it makes sense and I'm here for it.
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why doesnt anybody ever talk abt how much more expensive books have gotten just in like. the past 10 years. paperbacks regularly cost like more than 20$ now and i just saw a hardcover for almost 40!!! when i was a kid paperbacks were at Most 12$ and hardcovers were like 20$ max. what the hell has happened. what is the world coming to
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Boba is small and obnoxious, in a way only small tubies can be, squirming and thrashing around in his crib as he wails. He’s been told that Boba is denominated “a toddler”, by nat-born standards. CC-2224 is not impressed.
“What does the word ‘Boba’ mean,” he asks. The word has been bothering him for some time now.
Jango doesn’t raise his eyes from the datapad he’s frowning at, “It’s an old family name.”
CC-2224 considers this. Boba continues to wail at the injustices of the world. CC-2224 is sympathetic to that, at least.
And then the question pops in his head like an armed grenade.
“Can I have a name?” he asks.
Jango looks up at him, both eyebrows raised up to his hairline. There's a considering silencie, and then he says, like he's already regretting it, “You could.”
CC-2224 stares at him expectantly. Boba wails, mostly ignored.
Jango snorts and shakes his head, letting his attention fall back on his datapad, “You’ll have to come up with one on your own, kid. I’m shit at naming things,”
CC-2224 frowns, looking down at Boba, who’s finally beginning to realize no one paying much attention to his crying and he might need to adapt his strategies.He makes grabby fingers at CC-2224, who watches impassively.
Making an impulsive decision, he reaches into the crib and pulls the baby out, holding him at eye level like a hide up for inspection.
“I like the word kote,” CC-2224 says.
“Very modest,” Jango snorts, but he sounds approving. Newly christened Kote thinks he wasn’t looking for approval, but its nice getting it anyway.
Boba sneezes on his face, and the universe shifts.
Kote's never seen the sun, but someday he'll understand this moment feels like sunrise.
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