As of January 21, 2025, I will no longer be oppressed by my salary, retirement savings scheme, or my office kitchen with its free coffee and biscuits. Instead, I will have the liberty to live out my womanly dream of quitting my job, having babies, performing animal husbandry, and stuffing the windows and doors with towels when the topsoil is swept into a storm that blackens out the sun.
Thank you, President-elect Trump.
I am thrilled to escape the woke trap of a professional career with enough seeds left in my ovaries to keep me pregnant through the next few years before I become a barren husk in desperate need of hormone replacement therapy, which will be outlawed by men who know better.
While coastal elites “ride the subway” to the office and avail themselves of universal pre-K, I will be safe birthing babies by my pastel pink rangehood, soaking almonds in bore water, and researching crop rotation, because even the veratrine isn’t taking care of the stubborn cicada problem we seem to have out here on the plains. I will reclaim a woman’s place at nearly the head of the family, up on a sort of rusty pedestal that Plan B can never reach.
