Drop that donut! I have had a vision, and it is far worse than the end of the world. What if the world doesn’t end? Vegas odds are unclear. What if we find ourselves stumbling around, bleary and hungover, on Sunday the 22nd? What if we still have to get up, possibly shower, and drag our feet off to the box factory or the filing emporium on Monday? Still hungover. Oh, it will be terrible. We won’t have any clean knickers, because who does laundry before a rapture? There will be nothing in the fridge but Pellegrino and vodka and cigarettes. But I guess that’s always the situation in that department. Oh, camembert, we’ll be out of that.
At least rapture insurance is non-refundable. I’ll still have my jets. And I guess we can always go all in on the Mayan calendar.
If anything, this whole rapture thing has reminded me that I am not living as my own authentic self. Forget bucket lists. To properly dissolve a body in lye, you need at least a 10-gallon drum. I have decided that I am going to stop pretending to be an adult who always wears a shirt and knows how to proceed at a 4-way stop and add a page to an Excel spreadsheet.
Instead, I am going to swan around in my vintage Le Smoking, cultivating just the right amount of fear and adulation in my fellow humans. I think I will quit my job, as I simply prefer not to be a slave to the whims of the criminally insane. I am only a slave to my own criminally insane whims!
WATCH THIS SPACE.