I suppose I should start by congratulating you. If you are reading this then you have at least survived long enough to watch the inauguration of Donald Trump as the 45th President of the United States and will accordingly be recognized as one of the last to bear witness to Western civilization.
You have won at history, and that's a pretty impressive feat when you think about it. This month marked the anniversary of the day David Bowie, presumably tormented by the ghastly images of what awaited us for the rest of last year, was called back to his home dimension and left this world for good. If the Gregorian calendar - of which I am reluctant participant - starts the start of the year year as January 1st, then January 10th was the start of it all going to hell. From that point on it was a bloodbath; 2016 seemed determined to kill every last one of us, never letting up for a second - not even in the wee hours of New Year's eve for the unfortunate soul died outside of my apartment.
So I'm beginning to think this whole era is one of those nightmares you're just never going to wake up from. We're living in Trump's world now, at the mercy of his tiny hands and weirdo fetishes until he gets us all killed or John Roberts ends up swearing in Mike Pence after a constitutional debacle, whichever comes first. Either way we should probably get used to calling this Year Zero, breeding more donkeys to carry our pots and pans, dying in childbirth, and debunking the Beaverton articles Kellie Leitch's campaign manager insists on posting as fact.
It's all so hard to bear that I've decided to slip into a fugue state and fuck off for a week to go adventuring. If we are the universe attempting to look at itself, then I better start looking at things before Chinese ICBMs or hysterical problem drinking whisk me away. Iceland in January may seem foolhardy, but I'm made from rugged Canadian stock and $20 pints may be precisely what I need to slow myself down and adopt the marathon pace that will be required to endure the lunacy of the years ahead. Besides, it's much better than my original plan of going to DC for the inauguration and it's as good a place as any to watch a nuclear war on CNN. Afterwards I can send myself off to sea on an ice floe to slip peacefully beneath the waves, if it comes to that.
But perhaps not. Adventure may be the key to escaping the general malaise that is our dim and fading present, and to kick off a new chapter in learning to live after thirty. We're all on the other side now, I'll see you there.
