It’s that time of year again—the time when every social media feed, coffee shop conversation, and news channel is clogged with discussions about elections. For some, this is a thrilling chance to exercise their democratic rights. For others—let's be honest—it's a nerve-wracking mess. And then, there’s a special group of voters like me who stare at the ballot and wonder if all these candidates were copy-pasted from each other’s resumes.
Everyone keeps asking, “Have you decided who to vote for?” And I keep smiling nervously, nodding along like I have an answer that’s not inspired by picking a random name from a hat.
This year, we have candidates from both corners of the political spectrum to the far end. There’s the determined ‘man-of-the-people’ with a creased forehead and a look that says he hasn’t slept since his dog ran away in 1996. There’s the optimistic ‘new face’ who promises a better future but sounds like he read all his speeches off a teleprompter written by an AI. And then there’s the fiery ‘change-maker’ whose passion in debates could rival that of a toddler denied a cookie.
Despite their apparent differences, they all seem to blend together. Same suits, same forced sincerity in their eyes, and the same broad smile that seems less “friendly” and more “please vote for me, I need a job.”
If you’ve ever listened to a candidate’s campaign promises, you know the drill:
“More jobs!”—Great! Where are they coming from?
“Lower taxes!”—Sure, until they find a creative way to introduce a “Community Wellness Fee.”
“Better healthcare!”—Do you mean the kind where you can book a doctor’s appointment and still be alive by the time it happens?
Their promises often read like bad poetry: vague, repetitive, and strangely hypnotic. It’s as if they all enrolled in the same online course titled, “How to Sound Like You’re Doing Something Without Actually Saying Anything”. I mean, who wouldn’t want “change for a better tomorrow,” but at this point, I’d settle for knowing where my nearest recycling bin is.
Choosing a candidate feels like a multi-level puzzle where every piece looks like it’s trying to fit in the wrong slot. You ask yourself questions like, “Who’s less likely to mess up?” or “Who’s the least objectionable?” It’s almost like speed dating, except the stakes are considerably higher, and none of the candidates have offered to buy me dinner.
Deep down, I know voting is important. It’s a cornerstone of democracy! People fought for this right! But if democracy is about choosing between a dozen versions of “Guy Who Means Well,” I’m not sure I’m smart enough to differentiate. Perhaps a decision wheel would help—a literal wheel with their faces on it. Spin and hope.
It’s not just the candidates that confuse me; it’s also the people who have already made their minds up. I have a friend who treats politics like sports, complete with shouting at the TV, waving banners, and trash-talking the other team’s ‘coach’ (a.k.a. opposing candidates). It’s admirable but exhausting to watch.
When I tell her I’m undecided, she looks at me like I just said, “I don’t care for food.” She doesn’t understand. For her, not voting is a crime; voting incorrectly is a mortal sin. The conversation typically ends with her handing me a stack of pamphlets and saying, “Just read these, and you’ll see why Candidate X is obviously the best choice.”
Spoiler alert: I didn’t read them.
So there I am, on Election Day, standing in line at the polling station, sweating bullets and feeling like an imposter. I shuffle forward, clutching my voter ID like it’s a ticket to a concert I’m not excited to attend. Everyone around me looks so confident—like they’ve all memorized the menu while I’m still trying to find the appetizers.
The voting booth itself is a tiny chamber of dread. It’s silent, private, and it smells faintly of wood polish and regret. I look at the ballot and the list of names, and it’s like I’m choosing a movie on a streaming service. I can’t pick a candidate for the same reason I can’t pick a film: there are too many options, and none of them look particularly inspiring.
Once I’ve finally made a choice, I exit the booth and hand in my ballot. I feel a small surge of pride, immediately followed by a sinking feeling that I may have just picked the candidate who will be remembered for something ridiculous—like accidentally declaring war on New Zealand or turning Mondays into “Mandatory Maraca Practice Day.”
After all, I’m no political expert. How am I supposed to know which one of these candidates will do a good job? They all looked the same to me, and none of them had a particularly compelling pitch. It’s like a bad job interview where all the applicants only listed “strong communicator” and “team player” as their skills.
At the end of the day, choosing a candidate can feel a lot like guessing what’s inside a wrapped present. There’s excitement, sure, but also the realization that it could just be socks again. And while socks are practical, you were hoping for something more exciting this time.
The truth is, being an undecided voter isn’t a crime. It’s a sign that you’re taking the decision seriously (or so I tell myself). Maybe all the candidates do seem the same sometimes, but it’s possible that they’re all decent enough people trying to navigate a system designed to turn everyone into human advertisements.
So if you, too, have no idea who to vote for and all the candidates look the same to you, take solace in the fact that you’re not alone. We’re all just trying to do our best with the information we have, and sometimes, all you can do is close your eyes, pick a name, and hope that this one doesn’t make national headlines for the wrong reasons.
In the end, democracy isn’t perfect. It’s a bit like ordering at a restaurant where you can’t understand the menu and the waiter seems annoyed that you’re even there. But at least, in the grand scheme of things, we get a say—even if that say is uttered with a slightly confused shrug and a whispered, “Well, I guess this one?”
If all else fails, remember this: it could be worse. We could be in a system where nobody gets to pick. So here’s to another election season—may your candidate bring good things or at the very least, avoid mandatory maraca practice.
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