It has been half a decade since everyone went crazy. I lived in the Florida panhandle during the pandemic, where the lockdowns were a blip, and the craziest thing Black Lives Matter did was block a bridge, an incident that was only interesting because it ended in one of the protesters taking a ride on the hood of a Ford Flex all the way into the next town over. Covid culture, so much as it existed, was enforced in large part by northern busybody corporations like Target, where I saw my last masking fight in the spring of 2021.
“Put on your mask,” I heard a portly middle-aged woman murmur as she walked past a sunburnt dad in Nikes.
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