It was Easter Sunday and the president of the United States posted a nuclear-adjacent threat to Iran at 5am. Power Plant Day, he called it. Praise be to Allah. The Strait of Hormuz or hell descends upon you. Forty million people saw it before breakfast.
My wife and I were on the floor. Cleaning dog puke. It was stinky and wet.
Bob had eaten something he shouldn’t have — he always does, pit bulls are optimists about what constitutes food — and Maple and I were down there with paper towels doing what you do. The sun was coming through the window at the angle it comes through on April mornings in the Pacific Northwest. Bob looked sorry. He always looks sorry afterward. It doesn’t stop him.
This is what empire collapse actually looks like from the inside. Not the headline. The floor. The puke cleaning. My memories of brain matter and the randomness of death in war. If the elites hav…
