For better or worse, Donald Trump has become a highly controversial household name, and whether you love or hate him, we can all probably agree on one thing: the media needs to shut up about Donald Trump. But, as they say, if you can’t beat them, join them. Thus, this is my contribution to the media’s Trump obsession: seven things I’d rather do than read more mainstream coverage of Donald Trump.

• Have dinner with my ex’s new girlfriend and her parents. Ah, the awkward silences are strong with this one. Not only do I have to force polite small talk with this girl, but we’ve upped the ante by adding in her mega conservative parents. I’m sure my generally dry sense of humor would fly like a lead balloon. To make things worse, I get approximately 300% more sarcastic and offensive under pressure. I just imagine myself nervously spouting off some unsavory joke, seeing their horrified expressions and becoming increasingly more interested in dissecting a somewhat dry dinner roll. My crude banter aside, there’s no way the entire dinner could pass without addressing the glaring elephant in the room– the only thing on earth that this perfectly cookie-cutter future suburban housewife and I could possibly have in common– my ex-boyfriend. I predict this would likely come up about halfway through the main course, when someone carelessly mentions him, causing a deafening silence to be filled only with the empty clinking of cutlery on flatware. Still, even that pathetic white noise is preferable to that of a cheeky broadcast reporter saying. “Today in politics, Donald Trump…”

• Listen to Gordon Ramsay, Simon Cowell and the late Joan Rivers critique my freshman year Tumblr blog. The angst! The horror! The hideous selfies! Who better to judge the Dark Ages of my social life than three of my icons (who also happen to be three of the most gut-wrenchingly honest people to walk the earth)? It’s almost amusing to dream up what each individual critic might take issue with. Rivers would unquestionably annihilate my horrendous taste in clothing. For those of you who don’t know or care to remember, my fashion sense as a 13-year-old frosh could best be described as “homeless druggie with a Hot Topic coupon,” only to be complemented with a hefty dose of black eyeliner (applied around the eye in a raccoon-esque fashion that made my eyeballs look like they were wearing a very strange belt). Cowell would likely take it a little easier on me, as my music taste wasn’t horrible perse, but he would still be mildly disgusted by the amount of screamo (I know I am). Ramsay, however, would definitely go straight for the kill, ad hominem style. Without any risotto to insult or filet mignon to be disgusted by, I shudder to think Gordon Ramsay would resort to attacking my character as displayed through the content of my blog. As my freshman self so artfully juxtaposed embarrassing memes with moody “poetry” (needless to say, I liked to ruminate in thoughts almost as dark as my cheap eyeliner, and twice as unattractive), he really has a lot of ammo to absolutely attack me over. But, yet, none of these attacks would feel as invasive as the New York Times news banner on my phone announcing every time Donald Trump sneezes and who was potentially offended.

• Have to explain J.Cole albums line-by-line to my cherubic and uncorrupted little brother. As a cradle-to-grave rap fanatic, sometimes it’s easy to forget how obscene the lyrical content really is. To think of my sweet toddler Travie, whose greatest woe is fighting pretend dinosaurs in my living room, asking what “G.O.M.D.” stands for makes me want to die inside. I can’t really write much more about this one, because most of my examples are unpublishable, but I think my point is made. Regardless, when it comes between J.Cole and Trump, one must distinguish the evils of exposure. Sure, J.Cole could teach my brother a few choice words and topics that make me absolutely writhe with discomfort, but seeing how the media handles Trump might lead my brother to think our American politics are becoming nothing more than cheap entertainment rather than a governmental institution. Yeah, I’ll take the J.Cole records, thanks.

• Watch a 24 hour montage of Sarah McLachlan SPCA commercials. Nothing says “withering sanity” quite like watching a slideshow of crying puppies to McLachlan’s mournful crooning. Generally, I only see a second or two of these commercials on my nightly South Park marathon before fast-forwarding through the remainder of the sad-eyed animal footage, thankful that DVR was invented for the sole purpose of sparing my soul from Sarah McLachlan’s guilting gaze. If even those mere seconds are traumatizing, how a human being could change after 24-hours of raw exposure. I shudder at the thought. Yet, even this beats listening to more news outlets argue about what Trump said to that one person at that one debate when that one thing happened.

• Supervise a daycare for a week. Anyone who has spoken to me for more than .09 seconds knows that kids are not my cup of tea. Yes, I know, I was once a kid too, but that doesn’t change the fact that children make me uncomfortable to the tenth degree. I don’t know how to talk to them or play with them. Part of this is because I was a very unfun child, and kids like to remind me of this whenever I try to be *relatable*. For example, I spent most of my time as a toddler (and still today) watching the History channel and reading dictionaries. Apparently, this is not “cool” or “fun” to the average child, as a herd of 6-10 year olds informed me at last year’s family  Christmas when I was charged with babysitting duty. In a position of authority at a daycare, I would attempt to avoid betraying my discomfort, but as we all know, children can smell fear. As most seven year olds are taller than me, I fear they might overpower me all too easily. But, at least they wouldn’t do so by asking me my opinions on Donald Trump.

• Retake all my hardest finals from the last 5 semesters of high school. We’d kick things off with second semester freshman year Advanced Algebra I final, which I left sobbing hysterically. Next, we’d tackle first semester sophomore year AP World History, for which I made a really amazing study guide and still got a horrendous grade. I don’t remember how that happened, precisely, but I do remember staring dead-eyed at my paper and resigning myself to failure about 20 minutes in. The only thing worthy of chasing that fiery hellscape would be first semester sophomore year Advanced World Literature’s Rashomon final. Fun fact: when English teacher Steve Himes saw me crying on the stairs outside the Commons after the final, he looked me in the eyes and laughed. I feel like Trump will have a similar reaction if he witnesses my eventual mental collapse due to overdosing on Trump-based coverage.
• Compete on hit TV show Wipeout. For those yet unexposed to the very pinnacle of American television, allow me to paint you a picture: a virtually impossible obstacle course populated by the type of people you see at Walmart at 11 p.m. on a Thursday. For those of you yet unexposed to the very pinnacle of lacking athleticism, allow me to paint you a picture: me. Don’t get me wrong, I work out. I run, lift, do some yoga on occasion. What I don’t do is throw my mud-covered body from massive red bouncy balls to trampolines to unstable suspended platforms on national television. Go ahead and Google “Wipeout” if you truly want to see the epitome of epic failure. Though, realistically, I can last longer on the “world’s largest obstacle course”  than I can without hearing, seeing, reading or subconsciously absorbing the word “Trump.”