We’re like the early seasons of Great British Bake Off, where everyone helped each other and drank tea while they waited for things to finish baking and occasionally got berated by an older white man who is creepy toward some of the women.

We’re like a group of high school friends who went out one night and accidentally killed someone and then hid the body because they were scared of the consequences, and now we’re forever connected by the shared guilt, fear, and shame.

We’re like a group of people constantly eating at Olive Garden.

We’re all bound together by our fervent belief that our god-like CEO will rescue us from the apocalyptic visions of a dying Earth by taking us to a terraformed paradise in space. Also, we’re not a cult.

We’re like a fictional soccer team with a folksy yet wise coach who is determined that we all should grow into the best versions of ourselves. He also somehow never feels the need to replace anyone because of poor performance or financial realities. (Please note: we do have at-will employment.)

We’re like a group of people who moved to a new city and then, by happenstance, fell in with each other. Due to our alienation from everything that we knew, we now spend every waking moment with each other, trying in vain to recreate a feeling of home that, deep down, we know we have irrevocably lost.

We’re trauma-bonded.

We’re a pride of lions, a pack of wolves, a parade of elephants, a murder of crows, a conspiracy of lemurs, a bloat of hippopotamuses—really any sort of group of animals where their occasional collective efforts to secure food or shelter or whatever mask the fact that it’s still survival of the fittest and if you challenge leadership, we will leave your lifeless corpse in the dirt.