Everyone I know has a story about where they were for the 2016 election results. These stories are well-rehearsed and everybody hates them. The person telling the story hates it and the people listening hate it and we all tell them to each other anyway, as though it were some grim compulsion mandated by a misery-fed demon. Whether I stayed home or went to a party, if I cried or didn’t, whether I expected it or didn’t expect it, went to sleep or couldn’t sleep—every single one of these anecdotes is the worst, and a bunch of people telling them to each other is the worst thing that ever happens in any social situation, and it keeps on happening anyway. I have a story; I’m good at telling it; I rarely despise myself more than when I am two sentences into it, grinding the key in the ignition of the worst car in the world, ready to go on the same drive that everyone hates.
historical fiction
historical fiction
historical fiction
Everyone I know has a story about where they were for the 2016 election results. These stories are well-rehearsed and everybody hates them. The person telling the story hates it and the people listening hate it and we all tell them to each other anyway, as though it were some grim compulsion mandated by a misery-fed demon. Whether I stayed home or went to a party, if I cried or didn’t, whether I expected it or didn’t expect it, went to sleep or couldn’t sleep—every single one of these anecdotes is the worst, and a bunch of people telling them to each other is the worst thing that ever happens in any social situation, and it keeps on happening anyway. I have a story; I’m good at telling it; I rarely despise myself more than when I am two sentences into it, grinding the key in the ignition of the worst car in the world, ready to go on the same drive that everyone hates.