Uncertain times have gripped our society. With the quarantine in full effect, many of the more margerined members of society have found themselves lost and confused in a world dominated by old white men. Nobody knows the horrors of quarantine more than journalists. Ever since the start of this pandemic, I’ve been keeping a lot of my hardship and struggles as a Greysexual Novigender and this is my experience so far…
I spent the early days of the quarantine inflicting my rage upon the realms of the internet. Why, you ask? Because that vile, disgusting, orange cretin deemed myself and my fellow journalists non-essential! Journalists, non-essential!? Can you believe the audacity!? After all, what would the public be doing without esteemed publications like NPC Daily guiding them regarding the correct thoughts and safe speech? These Tumblr blogs of mine turned out to be particularly effective as everyone posted jazz hands in the comments. I have no doubt that Trump’s wig would fall from his trembling orange head if he ever read them.
Most of my days have been spent in the company of my emotional support cat, Che. Sadly Che has not taken to the quarantine as well as I have. Before these dark days, Che was the mascot of my local Antifa chapter and even obtained the rank of pansexual comrade of the year. Antifa marches were xirs favourite pastime and xe has been literally mortified by being denied this hobby. No amount of soy milk or vegan dietary supplements have been able to console xir. Xe doesn’t even watch the funny men with the correct opinions on the television with me anymore.
As the days passed, my struggles became harder. I’ve been increasingly attacked online for being a journalist and without my comrades here to defend me, I don’t feel safe anymore. I’ve started running out of tissues in my cry closet and the toilet paper stockpiles and dwindled to quench my tears. I can only hope that my friends like feminist film critic Nora Craft and renowned Antifa activist Tristan Soysworth have the essential cry closet supplies needed to stay sane.
My only contact so far from the outside world has been my cousin, Lindsey Croft. In order to keep our minds active we’ve been attending virtual meetings and reciting our favourite slam poetry, including my personal favourite “Trump and Pence we say no!” sung by none other than lyrical genius, Dustin Levitt. Cousin Lindsey has also been giving me tips on my Marxist menstrual blood art, because Novigenders can have periods too. Just recently I’ve finally finished my Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez portrait that will hang in front of my bed. That way I know that I am safe as I transcend to journalist dreamland.
Going outside has been torturous; I have faced nothing but harassment and hatred incited against me by your everyday, casual fascist. Wearing my rainbow hazmat suit has proven to be an empowering experience, and the “F*ck Trump” written in paint on the back surely has gotten the message across about how much everyone should hate Drumpf. Sadly, I have been attacked for my dashing sense of style. I’ve suffered horrifying nightmares ever since a group of Trump supporters decided to rip apart my suit and cough all over me. Luckily they didn’t have the Trump virus but I’m still having virtual sessions with my therapist to this day.
I’ve also had to remind wrongdoers about the dangers of failing to socially distance. Occasionally, I’ve gone outside with a giant plastic ring around my head to remind people how to correctly navigate public spaces. I’ve also beat my personal record of the number of miscreants reported to the authorities for doing evil deeds, like going to the park, spending time with family, and jogging. I’m currently at a whopping 35 arrests. (Beat that, Jared). Hopefully the police will decide to read my 1500 word essay on why licenses need to be required in order to leave one’s house.
All I can hope is that the lockdown ends soon. That way I can return to the NPC Daily office and see my friends again. I want nothing more than to rejoin my comrades and rewatch Amy Schumer comedy specials again on our breaks. In the meantime, I will do what I must: write articles and bash the fash online. The patriarchy won’t smash itself after all.
Next time you see a journalist attacked during the quarentine, remember: we cry, so you don’t have to.
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