The sun--that superstar around which our planet revolves--is set to die, spectacularly and soon. Experts told us the demise of the sun would not occur for another several billion years. Then, last week, we got the news.
Imagine an oncologist delivering the dire diagnosis: tumor, malignant, much too large for safe removal. Folks have, understandably, been a tad tetchy lately. The family of five next door are currently grilling an entire pig, albeit not at once. The young couple on the other side vamoosed not long ago, telling me they wanted to spend their last days in Canada.
"Where in Canada?" I asked the young man, envisioning him with moose antlers.
"There. In Canada," he replied.
I thought, briefly, of making ambitious travel plans: every country in Europe! Australia! In the end, insufficient funds mean I will die where I (for the most part) lived.
Most of what remains will be spent, is being spent, on food. Since I no longer must eat to live, I can indulge in what I truly love. Box after box, filled with grease splotches and crust hard as bones. Can after can, filled with nothing.
The TV has been dormant for days. Everyone on this time bomb became an expert on the sun overnight, started paying attention and respect to the brilliant heroes of ratiocination that they'd so cavalierly downplayed before, which sealed it for me. I just sit back, stimulate my senses, and take solace in the fact that those thick-headed pricks in positions of power, those silver-tongued, bronze-bottomed entrepreneurs, cannot use their status or wealth to escape fate. I am no longer envious of their extravagances. They will die in a blaze alongside the average Joey and Jenny. We are all golden now.
The couple directly across the street have been spending every minute of the day on their front porch. Sometimes they hold hands. Their anniversary is next week. Their 50th. Gold.
I don't check the news. It's highly possible that with nothing left to lose (or win), hordes have taken to the streets, brandishing machetes, toting shotguns. More than likely there are some stirring photos featuring glass shards, bloodied sidewalks and far-from-random fires.
Why take them? For future generations? There aren't going to be any future generations, you dummies!
My neighborhood is pretty quiet. If anyone here is planning on beating the sun to the punch, they're doing so within their own walls.
People thought Pluto got a raw deal.
Imagine an oncologist delivering the dire diagnosis: tumor, malignant, much too large for safe removal. Folks have, understandably, been a tad tetchy lately. The family of five next door are currently grilling an entire pig, albeit not at once. The young couple on the other side vamoosed not long ago, telling me they wanted to spend their last days in Canada.
"Where in Canada?" I asked the young man, envisioning him with moose antlers.
"There. In Canada," he replied.
I thought, briefly, of making ambitious travel plans: every country in Europe! Australia! In the end, insufficient funds mean I will die where I (for the most part) lived.
Most of what remains will be spent, is being spent, on food. Since I no longer must eat to live, I can indulge in what I truly love. Box after box, filled with grease splotches and crust hard as bones. Can after can, filled with nothing.
The TV has been dormant for days. Everyone on this time bomb became an expert on the sun overnight, started paying attention and respect to the brilliant heroes of ratiocination that they'd so cavalierly downplayed before, which sealed it for me. I just sit back, stimulate my senses, and take solace in the fact that those thick-headed pricks in positions of power, those silver-tongued, bronze-bottomed entrepreneurs, cannot use their status or wealth to escape fate. I am no longer envious of their extravagances. They will die in a blaze alongside the average Joey and Jenny. We are all golden now.
The couple directly across the street have been spending every minute of the day on their front porch. Sometimes they hold hands. Their anniversary is next week. Their 50th. Gold.
I don't check the news. It's highly possible that with nothing left to lose (or win), hordes have taken to the streets, brandishing machetes, toting shotguns. More than likely there are some stirring photos featuring glass shards, bloodied sidewalks and far-from-random fires.
Why take them? For future generations? There aren't going to be any future generations, you dummies!
My neighborhood is pretty quiet. If anyone here is planning on beating the sun to the punch, they're doing so within their own walls.
People thought Pluto got a raw deal.
