“Nearly half of Republicans believe California ‘not really American.’ ” — LA Times

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After being jolted awake by yet another earthquake, I take a deep breath and compose myself. Ahhh… the sweet smell of smog. I rise, brew up a pot of fair trade coffee, and inject my arm with the mandatory daily vaccine.

Today is my birthday, and I’m going out with friends to celebrate, but I have some things to do beforehand. First, I need to write my monthly mortgage check: $800,000. But it’s no big deal, because I’m saving tons of money not owning a car thanks to our Supreme Leader Gavin Newsom outlawing them.

I strap on my facemask and head outside. I see Dave, one of the fifteen unhoused people living in my front yard. He shows me carpet swatches for the five-bedroom mansion our state legislature has voted to build for him, free of charge. Dave proudly confesses to me that this had been his plan all along and that getting a free house made all his time being treated as subhuman totally worth it. I hear him laughing maniacally as I scurry down the driveway on my electric rollerblades.

Blading along, I pause to engage in a moment of mindfulness. I am thankful to have this free time in the middle of the week since I don’t have a job. Only undocumented immigrants are allowed to have jobs. My status as a white American with a social security number has made me completely unemployable. I’m forced to support myself with the proceeds of my self-published book, Witchcraft for Vegans.

I make a pitstop at CVS to buy a replacement charger for my electric rollerblades. The line is so long, and I have an Anti-Heterosexuality Rally to get to. No worries. I can just walk out with it without paying. There are absolutely no penalties for stealing; you can have anything any time you want it.

As I’m leaving the CVS with my free charger, I am angrily confronted by a mask-less stranger about my choice of shopping bag. His bare face and aggression scare me, and I worry he may have one of those things I have always heard about called a gun. I think I saw a gun once, but I’m not sure whether it was real or I just hallucinated after smoking too much legal weed. It’s rumored that no one in the entire state of California has seen a real gun since we voluntarily tossed all of them into a giant U-Haul and gave them to Obama.

I pull down my mask, and summon the nerve to explain to the stranger that my shopping bag only looks plastic. I proudly show him my sustainably sourced bag made from recycled puka shell necklaces. It has the same texture, appearance, and function of real plastic. We laugh gleefully about the mix-up, and soon find ourselves deep in conversation. It turns out that we share a mutual enthusiasm for higher taxes.

It’s now 5 p.m. The sweet smell of urine and feces fills the air. Ah, San Francisco! I feel the delightful crunch, crunch, crunch beneath my feet… hypodermic needles blanket the ground like autumn foliage. San Francisco certainly is a dream city. I walk into a Starbucks to grab a coffee, and the barista asks if I’d like a complimentary line of cocaine with my order. A customer behind me snacks on magic mushrooms.

As the sun starts to set, I join my friends on the beach, and they present me with a gluten-free birthday cake shaped like Nancy Pelosi’s face. When I blow out my solar-powered, flame-free soy candles, I wish for the same thing I have for the past five years: the complete annexation of Austin, Texas.