The year is 2017. Donald J. Trump, shady businessman and television personality, is the 45th President of the United States. Morale is low. The Trump Administration seems vulnerable to spontaneous combustion.

Bureaucracy is in shambles. Law has been degraded to blurbs of 140 characters or less. Every time the President sends out one of these blurbs, somewhere in the world, a small animal dies. Not to mention fundamental human rights are probably violated. The American people sigh collectively.

The disenfranchised millennial, a staple of this society, is abruptly awakened by a CNN push notification. She gets struck with intense sensations of impending doom. Anthony Scaramucci, White House Communications Director, has been fired after a whirlwind 10 days in office. A cannon shot is heard in the distance, Scaramucci’s holographic face is projected onto the non-EPA regulated night sky. The many tributes of this administration, Sean Spicer, James Comey, Michael Flynn, Reince Priebus, and Sally Yates, eagerly welcome the Mooch to the club of liberation. One singular tear falls into the millennial’s Bernie 2016 coffee mug.

At lunch, the millennial decides to enjoy her lunch in the park. As she sits on a bench, she wonders how long this green space will last, given the withdrawal of the United States from the Paris Climate Accord and the slow decay of the Environmental Protection Agency. Will I be able to bring my children here? She ponders. Then she resolves to not procreate. At least, not in this economy.

Returning to the workplace, the millennial finds that her male coworker has taken all the credit for the work she produced. She’s not even really sure what she does for a living, but she finds that she works twice as hard to receive half the credit. Hey, it’s kind of like that time the health care bill, leaving 22 million citizens uninsured, was stopped by pressure from the relentless activist groups and the fleeting unity of the Democratic Party. And then John McCain took all the credit! Such is life.

After work, the millennial stops by Urban Outfitters to contribute to the capitalist machine by buying trendy overpriced healing crystals that someone in corporate told her she needed. After a solid thirty minutes of surveying the flagship of young adult angst, she decides to leave empty handed. A small victory. Maybe I’ll do some online shopping, she thinks. Then again, by the time the package is delivered, we would probably have gone through three communications directors.

The millennial, after a long day of sighing to CNN push notifications, listening to alternative media podcasts, decides to simmer down after a mentally draining day in Trump’s America - with a piece of avocado toast. Another tumultuous day has come to an end. At least in four years, we'll have Kanye, she resolves.