2017 was the year the middle drawer of North America fell out of reality and hit the floor of the impossible so hard that all firm-minded pollsters, statisticians, sociologists, meteorologists, climatologists, journalists, economic forecasters and political annalists across the country bounced out and rolled away across the Trumpedelic plains, confronted as they spun in circles and rolled head over foot, glassy-eyed before a universe not held together by the laws of physics but instead stitched together with Tweets. Even poets, mystics, prophets, fortune-tellers and that one crazy man down on 6th Avenue holding the cardboard sign reading "The End Has Come" were mystified. Only A.M. talk-radio listeners and Fox-news sponges clung safely to the American drawer, now splayed open like an inverted calf hooked to an air compressor.
This was no small matter.
A tiny planet orbiting a minimal star on the outer fringes of one out of one hundred billion galaxies would never be the same. Every particle of reason on that tiny speck of existence knew something had forever changed and had no idea what to do about it. It was as if your intestine climbed up through your throat and began devouring your face. Would you still plan on getting up in the morning for a cup of coffee and the long commute? Well, that's exactly what we did--which, in a way, was as unreal as anything.
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