Dear Couch,

It’s me. The one you haven’t seen much of lately because I’ve been glued to my screen, swearing at political ads, doomscrolling polls, and trying to make sense of the chaos. But now, finally, the election is over, and I’m back. And let me tell you, I’ve never been more ready to surrender to your comforting embrace.

I don’t even know what day it is anymore. Time has been measured in “days until the election,” but now that’s behind us, leaving a black hole where my mental calendar used to be. Wasn’t it just August? Or was that 2019? I could’ve sworn I’ve aged a decade since last week.

Remember when I used to have hobbies? I don’t. The only “hobby” I’ve had lately is obsessing over early voting stats and yelling at debate moderators. I used to visit Best Buy, roam around Walmart, and talk to people about things that weren’t related to the fate of the Republic. How quaint that seems now.

But I’m here, Couch. I’ve come back to you broken and worn down by election fatigue, bearing nothing but a thousand-yard stare and a remote. Together, we will binge-watch meaningless content until I can no longer form coherent thoughts about voter turnout or battleground states. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll even get a full night’s sleep—without dreaming about electoral maps.

I’m not the only one, either. America is collectively exhausted. We’re like marathon runners who didn’t sign up for this race but somehow found ourselves sprinting, with no water breaks, toward some distant, elusive finish line. There were twists and turns, blisters, and emotional cramps along the way, but now we’re here. We’ve collapsed at the finish line, drenched in sweat and surrounded by empty pizza boxes.

Let’s talk about the election coverage, shall we? It was like being trapped in a casino. There were no windows, no clocks, just flashing numbers, constant updates, and endless speculation. By the end of it, I had the emotional stability of a broken slot machine. One minute I was convinced everything was fine; the next, I was ready to stockpile canned goods and start Googling “how to live off the grid.”

Now that it’s over, what are we supposed to do with ourselves? Go back to pretending we’re normal functioning adults who didn’t just spend months hyper-fixating on polling data? Awkwardly reintroduce ourselves to people we’ve ignored or alienated since the Fourth of July? “Oh hey, sorry I haven’t returned your texts, I’ve been busy… saving democracy, or something.”

But we’ve earned this. We’ve survived the chaos, the stress-eating, and the desperate caffeine-fueled rants on social media. The least we can do now is collapse into a Netflix-induced coma and not think about anything more controversial than whether to order takeout again.

So, Couch, I’m here. Let’s spend some quality time together, preferably in silence. I’ve done my civic duty. Now it’s time for you to do yours: support my weary body and don’t let me move for at least 72 hours.

Yours in exhaustion,

Charles – A Very Tired Voter