After twenty years of behaving like a dimmer switch at a yoga studio, the Sun has jolted awake and is now firing charged particles like confetti at a wedding it wasn’t invited to. Astronomers call it a solar maximum. Everyone else is calling their internet provider and getting a hold message that just sighs for eight minutes.

To be clear, this is technically normal; our local thermonuclear neighborhood watch goes through cycles. But the Sun’s interpretation of ‘cycle’ appears to be: ignore us for a couple of decades, then slam the cosmic blender to purée. In methods terms, we can replicate the phenomenon by throwing magnets at a radio until it begs for mercy.

Telecom companies have responded with a flurry of press releases explaining that your dropped call was not their fault, but rather due to a nearby star momentarily burping plasma. They have added a new line item to your bill called ‘Space-Based Roaming Fees’ and a tasteful glow-in-the-dark apology.

Meanwhile, auroras have sashayed south like they found cheaper rent, confusing cows, joggers, and anyone who thought neon was over. A family in Florida reportedly complained their smart toaster became an influencer for exactly six seconds before returning to resentment and crumbs.

NASA, stoic as always, offered the scientific equivalent of a shrug with citations. ‘Predicting specific flares is hard,’ said a spokesperson, gesturing at a graph that looked like a polygraph hooked to a caffeinated octopus. ‘Ideal control groups require a second Sun, which our IRB classified as excessive.’

Preppers are thrilled, because for once the apocalypse is punctual. Sales of faraday pouch for car keys and phones are up, alongside YouTube tutorials teaching you how to wrap your router in aluminum foil without creating a Jiffy Pop situation. The official guidance is: don’t stare directly at the Sun, and do blink occasionally when it stares back.

Airlines are rerouting over the scenic ‘Where Are We’ corridor, which offers sweeping views of uncertainty and complimentary pretzels. Pilots have dusted off procedures for when satellites go on silent retreat, including the ancient technique known as ‘looking out the window and frowning professionally.’

Markets, balanced and sober as a toddler on espresso, reacted by inventing HelioCoin, a currency supposedly mined by glare. A startup announced it would disrupt the Sun using mirrors, a pitch deck, and a TED Talk titled ‘Our Nearest Star Is Leaving Money on the Table.’ The Sun, valued at infinite, declined to comment.

Emergency managers recommend establishing a communication plan with family that does not rely on a cloud currently being tased by the universe. Consider a shortwave emergency radio with hand crank, which doubles as a marital fitness exercise when you argue over whose arm is the generator.

Politicians proposed solutions, including a giant umbrella, a national task force on scolding the sky, and a bipartisan bill to declare auroras officially ‘Not My Fault.’ The Ministry of Silly Walk-Offs suggested we all move under a large hat and queue politely against the magnetosphere.

Because I am obligated by temperament, here is a diagram: a line chart that looks like a roller coaster designed by a bored god, with confidence intervals measured in SPF. In the corner, an inset explains that ‘space weather’ is real, unlike that radar you swear ruins your picnic only when it hates you personally.

If there’s comfort, it’s the reminder that we live next door to a star that occasionally wakes up cranky, flings glitter at our antennas, and goes back to humming fusion. Call your loved ones, print a map, and wave at the sky like you’re thanking a bus driver. And if your texts don’t go through, tell them the Sun is typing.