I couldn't write with any authority about what I think will happen next week, let alone 4,680 weeks from now. By Christmas, we might be watching Florida drown. By Easter, Vivek Ramaswamy might be rolling to victory on a platform drawn from old episodes of Drunk History. By this time next year, we might be preparing to reelect a vulgar talking yam, back this time with a vengeance. Hell, I told her, just buy a Ouija board. Cut up a goat on a sacred rock. Rent a crystal ball from some Deadhead. All I know for certain about the year 2113 is that I won't be around to see whatever happens. I'm not entirely sure I'm disappointed about that. |
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