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The Relentless Pursuit of Joy
My strategy for surviving another Trump presidency, and life in general.
My husband, Jonny, is a bit clairvoyant. He has described having a Voice of the Universe in his head that speaks to him sometimes, and it’s rarely wrong. The voice often takes the form of a prankster in a bowler hat, leaning against a doorjamb, casually eating a sandwich while delivering warnings of treacherous things to come in a dry, sardonic tone. (I am embellishing much of this from my imaginative impressions of what Jonny has actually said to me.) I call his psychic inner voice the Universal Sandwich Man.
On Tuesday evening, as we sat together on a video call watching the election results trickle in, I asked Jonny what the Universal Sandwich Man had to say about our chances of inaugurating President Kamala Harris in January.
He flinched and said, “…I think he’s gonna win.”
I told him I would happily trade the whole idea of him being psychic if he could just be wrong this one time, and he said he would, too. We spent the next few hours praying for the demise of Jonny’s psychic status.
I hate that he’s still psychic. I hate the Universal Sandwich Man.
Choke on your sandwich, Sandwich Man.