Like these people here in Florida, flying American flags on environment-ruining lawns maintained by undocumented immigrants who are paid illegally low wages, illegally. And they call themselves patriots.”

Not coincidentally, it’s been four since they had sex aside from extremely rare alcohol-aided outliers. The cancer and its treatment exacerbated a preexisting trend, providing the excuse that Julian suspected his wife wanted. Not that they’d ever argue about it, nor even discuss it. The excuse, like so many other things in their marriage, was impli

Emily had tried many different sleep aids. All of them, really, except narcotics. NyQuil, melatonin, THC, Ativan, Lunesta, et cetera. Each worked, incrementally, briefly, until it didn’t. Her problems could not be solved by pharmaceuticals.

If you kept the small rules, you could break the big ones. —GEORGE ORWELL

Because being immensely wealthy would make her happy, wouldn’t it? It would make anyone happy, that’s the promise of America,

many people started referring to themselves as independents, which Emily believed usually meant Republicans who didn’t want to be aligned with the increasingly berserk national party.

The absence of guns and strippers was probably a good measure of a good life. Though Chicky knew plenty of guys believed the opposite.

A lot of guys were eager for conflict to escalate. Especially knuckleheaded incels draped in camo and nativism posting about the storm that’s coming, saddle up, lock and load. Guys who thought of themselves as men of action saving America or saving democracy or saving the world or whatever.

For years Chicky had felt his life narrowing. At first little by little and then massively, removing this, removing that. People leaving. People dying.