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Politics is causing a genocide of fun as we know it

These days, when people ask me what we do, we tend to prop myself a bit, battening down a self-evident mental hatches. “Oh, I’m a writer,” I’ll contend cheerily, warily scanning my new friend’s eyes, generally if that chairman is my doctor, an Uber driver, a hairdresser, or someone else who happens to temporarily reason my life in his or her hands.

“What’s that? What do we write about? Oh …” — here’s a partial where we indicate a room for an shun induce and fundamentally fail. “I write about politics,” we say.

Almost instantly, what was formerly a sanguinary contention customarily escalates into a ardent yelling match, finish with high-octane scoffing, gloomy dirt-kicking, occasional hair-pulling, and that classical and excruciatingly unpleasant woe process comparison brothers use where they punch we in a accurate same place on your top arm over and over. (Mine told me it was “a aplomb test.”)

Next, we fundamentally take off in opposite directions, never to pronounce again, with a difference of spasmodic withdrawal any other passive-aggressive comments with intentionally treacherous emojis on a open Instagram accounts.

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