Imagine it's late afternoon, Sunday. You are curled beneath an afghan, still bloated from the fried fish you inhaled for lunch. You are sleeping heavily. Until your doorbell erupts. A young woman in a peasant top and floral pencil skirt is standing at your doorstep. She looks over her shoulder. A tall man wearing a black button-up oxford and a white tie nods from the sidewalk. He's leaning on an umbrella. She then looks you square in the eye and says,...
The doomsday cult school of specificity