2016 has maintained the bizarre atmosphere of a circus, but without the fun and with far too much terror. It has been something out of a nightmare, cruel and unusual—from ugly politics to a decaying educational system. We entered into the surreal, and we have found that all the exits just lead into more of the same.

Even now, as I sit in the library to crank out this testimony of the strange, I can feel the essence of the year eating away at my synapses. The only thing holding me together is music by Tom Jones, and when it comes to that, you know the situation is desperate. I’m starting to wonder if it’s too late to abandon the ship, but then again, I never learned how to swim so either way I think I’m doomed.

Tom Jones is fading away now, shifting gears into Jefferson Airplane. I think this piece is going to have to come down in a rough landing, and I’m not sure if I can save all the passengers on this one. The problem with writing in this frame of mind is that you end up crawling for the finish line, the all-important word count, and believe me, that isn’t always the easiest of contests. If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to walk away from this having said all that needs to be said, leaving behind the insanity on the page without having it follow me, but you can’t always count on luck….

Looking out the window everything seems fine, but I have a strong suspicion that once I walk out into the world, it’s all going to melt away into an acid tapestry of rumor born conspiracies and harsh vibes from everyone and everything. It’s gotten to the point where I’m forced to write in stream of consciousness because all my thoughts have left the joint, hiding out until this year is over. The words are coming out as graveled and cryptic as Matthew McConaughey’s dialogue in “True Detective” as he tells the police his side of the story involving the case he worked, and I’m forced to try to make sense of it all just to get it down on paper.

Speaking of making sense, where is all of this going, what does it all mean? The answer to that, my readers, is that we’ve come into a strange place, and who knows exactly when we’ll be making it out. If the administration on the national stage doesn’t do us in, it might as well be from our own back-yard, the brain trust of WSC. Presidential candidates are threatening to put political opponents in prison, and professors here are being shown the door. It’s a war on multiple fronts, and we’re caught right in the middle.

Perhaps we can take solace in the fact that it is November, and we’re coming close to the end of this semester, but even then, we have the election to get through, not to mention finals week in December. The hurdles seem endless, reaching all the way to the edge of the skyline.

Take it from me, readers, the circus has lost its appeal, and if you need me, I’ll be drinking next to the clichéd strongman and the bearded lady until the show finally stops. That is if they decide to ever shut it down.