You meet Atlas at a party. Trying to hear each other above the impossibly loud music, the two of you strike up conversation over a couple of White Claws. There’s just something in her eyes that you immediately trust. Also, her undercut is super hot.
As you start to tell her how hard it has been to meet other queer students on campus, you hear her tell you, “I’m a lesbian. I know, first-hand.”
What she really says is, “I’m a libertarian. I love Ayn Rand.”
With “Mr. Brightside” blaring, you’re still in blissful ignorance. She’s thoughtfully listening (or ominously quiet?) as you crack jokes about the Koch brothers. You tell her all about your childhood crush on lesbian icon Rachel Maddow, and then you ask her about her favorite kind of milk. Will it be almond? Soy?
Her answer is 2%: the same amount she wants to pay the government in taxes.
And that’s when it hits you.
Her hair isn’t, “sapphic short,” but, “list-of-regions-Gary-Johnson-remembers short.”
As you anxiously search for an exit, it’s Atlas’s turn to talk your ear off now. You find out that her idea of cottagecore is living in that libertarian commune where the bears ate all the trash and went crazy. She’s glad that Portlandia exists, because, “There’s not enough comedy against the liberal elite.” She cut her hair to match her grandmother (a former staffer for Ron Paul), but she’s hoping to grow it out to “Jo Jorgensen length” soon.
Finally, you can’t take it anymore. Like the lyrics of that TikTok song, you have to get out. Right now. You shove past Atlas and toward the door. She grabs your arm, anger and confusion across her face.
“Where are you going?” Atlas asks, her Ayn-Rand-style sack dress buckling with sweat. “I was enjoying our conversation about the broke suckers and your crush on Rupert Murdoch.”
“I’m sorry,” you tell her. “It’s just my personal responsibility to leave. You’ll understand.”