It’s not much of an exaggeration to say that every day for the past 356 days has been nothing short of a waking nightmare. The thought of ghosts and ghouls used to keep me up at night; now, a poltergeist could sit directly on my face and I doubt I’d even flinch. My clothes could fly around my room of their own accord, with several pairs of pants eventually spelling out the words “YOU WILL DIE TOMORROW,” and I’d just take a sip of water and go back to sleep. Satan himself could appear in my doorway holding what seems to be me, as a baby, but the first thing I’d do is show him a series of Trump’s latest tweets. “Can you believe this shit?” I’d ask him.