Do you ever wake up in the morning, look at the state of the world and have the overwhelming desire to crawl so deep under the covers that you might just find a portal to another, altogether happier dimension?
It’s 2022, and my morning radio alarm — set to the hour mark, when the juiciest doom is broadcast — has become a mental health hazard.
Perhaps I’m a glutton for punishment, but since doomscrolling has become an Olympic sport for my generation, I’d be remiss to try anything different.
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