It is March. I am standing in my kitchen in my PJs, eating Christmas candy that I purchased from the Goodwill.

To be clear, it was not my intention to be eating yuletide-themed confections on the precipice of spring, like Miss Havisham, but for snacks. It’s just that sometimes in life we find ourselves in places we never expected. A police holding cell. Tottering on the brink of totalitarianism. Florida.

When I purchased the candy – before Christmas, I might add, as I proudly hitch up the burlap sack I am wearing as trousers – only some of it was from the Goodwill. I am telling you this because I want you to think I am holding it together. That I am not just randomly opening up bags on the shelves at the thrift store and shoving the contents into my mouth, hoping that it’s edible and not filled with

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