Drugs ain't helping, IOW. I'm half convinced they're making things worse. Last night was the worst night yet.
In alternate new, my American Epics class is going well. We're on Sinclair Lewis' It Can't Happen Here now, his book he wrote because he (like many Americans in 1935) was terrified that the People Yes! were about to rise up behind a powerful progressive leader (specifically, in Lewis's case, behind Huey Long, down in Louisiana) and America was going to turn into something like Hitler's Germany or Mussolini's Italy.
Of course, he had no idea (probably) how bad Hitler's Germany was going to get.
Still, he's unfair to Huey Long and to the working class in It Can't Happen Here -- he gets,in more than a few places, more interested in writing a polemic than in writing a novel. I think 1935 must have been a really frightening time to be alive.