It’s been so long since I wrote anything of meaning that it’s tempting to get lost in some idea of where to start and what to say, but let’s instead do this:

Start with the rage. It’s always the right place. It’s always the most important place, the truest place, the purest.

We live in a country where all the right thinking folk were unable to stop the speeding train of intense, surreal fuckery. They couldn’t even slow it down. We have a reality television caricature as a president, we have plots unfolding that would be deemed too absurd for an episode of Twin Peaks or the X-Files or a cheap Skinemax film. Everyone the president touches is fucked, and no one fucks back. A doddering old man wandering our airstrips, our monuments, other countries, our collective consciousness, with no idea who he is or what he’s about, and not a single one of us can stop him.

I don’t know. Who ever truly dreamed we would be ruled by what amounts to little more than an orange pile of saliva and semen?