For most of my adult life, I ended my evenings curled up in pyjamas with my favourite men: Stephen Colbert, Seth Meyers, the Jo(h)ns (Oliver and Stewart) and Trevor Noah.

They were witty, indignant and knew just how to stroke my outrage while making me laugh. They gave my day closure – a safe feeling that someone principled was paying attention to what was going on in our country.

Meanwhile, my actual husband was usually just one room over, watching his own shows on his own device. Our decompression happened in parallel worlds after long days of work and high-stakes negotiations with our children over exactly how many more minutes of screen time they could have.

We then fell asleep in separate states of overstimulated exhaustion, each lit by the blue glow of our respective screens.

I w

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