When my nephew was very, very small @FaithKMoore and I took him on a long, sweaty, and generally cranky subway ride to see our grandmother, then suffering from advanced dementia. She was our one remaining grandparent. We walked into the room and this woman, who no longer reliably knew our names, lit up with what I can only describe as an uncanny sunburst of understanding. “It’s my great grandson!” she said, and scooped him into her arms like some protecting angel in a parting act of benediction. I never saw her again. This tripe will do absolutely nothing to make anyone feel more comfortable fending off unwanted romantic advances, but at least it might introduce a made-up problem where none exists into a few young people’s lives. And hey, maybe they’ll even squirm out of an embrace or two that they can never, ever get back, replacing one of life’s most nourishing mysteries—the love that broaches time by force, without our choosing, like an unstoppable angel—with a black crater of discomfort and regret. Nice going, chuckleheads. Everyone involved in the making of this ad should be forced to watch a million home videos, Clockwork-Orange style, then subjected to one thousand of the sloppiest kisses by a doddering old woman of the state’s appointment, and then sent to sit in a corner wearing a dunce cap while the rest of us go hug our eldest living relative extra tight.

It is 2045. A rapidly aging Jonathan Bailey dutifully plods his way through a cover of Hot for Teacher as Mr. Schue alongside an AI-generated simulacrum of Leah Michelle. Outside the studio, irradiated urchins scavenge for food in a nuclear wasteland. This is our life now.