This week, a resurfaced video of Donald Trump’s running mate, J. D. Vance, calling childless cat ladies like me miserable and uncaring went viral, making me more concerned than I already was about what my life might be like under an administration so hostile to women’s sexual, reproductive, and pet-related choices.
But then another viral story about Vance humping furniture (which turned out not to be true, surprisingly) made me realize, even if it would be too dangerous to have sex with men, and probably illegal to have sex with anyone else, maybe if they win, things wouldn’t be so bad after all. Because if Trump and Vance are elected, I can just start fucking my couch.
In the world they want to create, there will be even more restrictions on abortion than already exist, and birth control could be next. But my couch won’t get me pregnant. Sure there are times I’ve felt pregnant after sitting on my couch and eating a party-size bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, but it only takes time and stomach acid to abort that feeling.
And as my body expresses its autonomy throughout that process, I am non-judgmentally embraced by my couch’s arms. And judgmentally followed by my cats every time I make one of my many trips to the bathroom.
Vance has also suggested he wants the country to go back to a time before couples could easily divorce, when women had to stay in unhappy and even violent relationships with men. But I don’t have to worry about that on my couch. The only violence that ever happens here is when I lightly pound my fist on a cushion after the wrong person is named Top Chef. And around 9 p.m., when Murphy wants a third dinner.
My couch might know when I have my period, because I weigh about fifty pounds more than usual due to bloating, but it would never tell the police, like Vance wants women’s doctors to do. It’s got my back, it’s always there, and it doesn’t care if one to seven cats lie on it. If I’m being honest, lately I can’t help but linger a bit longer in the living room than I used to. The more I think about it, my couch would make a better lover than any man.
All this time it’s been right beneath me, how did I not see it sooner? The way it seems to sparkle when the sunlight hits the several layers of multicolored cat hair covering it. The seductive indentation from where I sit on it, sometimes for twelve hours at a time. The rock hard legs I stub my toe on at least once a week.
While I was once annoyed that my cats tore up the back of the couch, now all I see is a piece of furniture ribbed for my pleasure. And while it isn’t the most pleasant thing to find on the couch, nothing is slipperier than a hairball. I can barely take it anymore, it’s time to take things to the next level, regardless of who is elected in November!
And to those like Vance who will be concerned that, as a couch-fucker, I won’t be reproducing and thus don’t have a stake in the future, just know that I purchased the optional extended warranty on this baby, and I intend to ride it out—pun intended.
Fellow childless cat ladies, I’ll see you in the living room. ;)
