Even though the 2016 presidential elections – and their requisite accessories of electoral nodding heads from the trenches of politics – are more than a year away, we’re already feeling a slight graying climbing up our sideburns, a little bit of hubris clogging our synapses, an almost instinctive desire to climb into the darkest and coolest rooms we can find and curate our own personal exhibition, titled, simply, “Isolation.” It’s not that we don’t believe in the process (there are more “GOTV” night terrors in our collective head than we care to admit), but it’s just that, in some ways, we already know there is going to be a heightening of kitchen-table rhetoric and, with that, blood pressure. The ending is spoiled before its beginning, and if that’s happening to us (all hunched over our computers for the latest polysyllabic anachronism coming from a teleprompter), we fear it’s happening to you, too.
Looking back to the last time we went through this sort of itchy suffrage molting, it’s hard to get entirely thrilled about the voices gurgling up from the backside of our population. We’re supposed to “Feel the Bern” for Bernie Sanders, who, we might add, makes some pretty salient points, even if all of his policies would have to be enacted by executive order against the tantrums of a bought congress. We’re supposed to Windex the glass ceiling for its inevitable shattering by Hillary Clinton, who, we might add, makes some amazing points, especially in the face of the starched shirts who fear her so (clue: she’s a woman, and Benghazi isn’t really a thing). And then we’re supposed to follow the yellow-bricking of a Republican road that doesn’t read so much as a primary competition as it does a manipulative game of Koch Bros. chess.
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