Don’t panic or anything, but we’re all going to die. I’ve pretty much felt this way since that fateful night when I sobbed into my microwave popcorn and put my drunk ass to bed after finally accepting the Donald had won the presidency. Pondering our imminent deaths then was always more like comic relief for me than it was a stark reality. Kinda like, that’s ok if he decimates Social Security, we’re all going to be dead in a year anyway. See, losing your financial safety net and realizing you’re going to be eating cat food when you retire is funny, right?
I try my best to avoid all Trump related media, unless it involves making fun of how much bronzer he wears, but no matter how strong an effort I put forth I could not get away from his tirade against North Korea. He was talking about fire and fury and then fire and fury again because he has the conversation skills of a toddler. The same three words over and over and over, louder each time.
And why does he do that thing with his lips? He puckers them up and makes his mouth look like the hind end of a chihuahua . Then he squints his eyes and tries to look all mean, but he just ends up looking like an old man that’s trying really hard to see what button on the remote gets him to that Lawrence Welk show he loves so much.
I couldn’t avoid the squinty eyes and childish babble when I made the pitiable mistake of letting my husband have control of the TV for an hour. He likes to watch the news. I don’t watch the news because even when I watch the news for a nanosecond I break out in anxiety induced hives and start googling the price of bomb shelters. But I watched the news anyway.
“….fire and fury like this world has never seen.”
Fire and fury! Fury and fire! My penis is very small. I’m so ashamed of my small penis. Blah. Blah. Blah.
So, we’re going to die because our president has a small penis. Allegedly has a small penis. Ya know, allegedly. But I’m here to tell you it’s not all bad. Facing one’s mortality can be really liberating. I knew I wouldn’t be able to walk on my own for awhile after my surgery. When I woke up from anesthesia the first thing that entered my mind was the regret I held over not working hard enough when I was healthy to run the half marathon that had long been on my bucket list.
Regret over something I didn’t do when I had the chance to do it.
Regret over squandering my time.
Regret. Not relief. Not hope. Not joy. Regret.
Regret can eat you up. If you let it. But regret can fuel you. Regret can kick you in the ass and shake you to the core and be your proverbial come to Jesus moment. Regret can also be your literal come to Jesus moment, if that’s your thing. No judgement here.
Like the feeling of hope and immense satisfaction that can only come when you peel that plastic sheet off the screen of your brand new phone, regret has given me a new outlook on life. It has made me more vocal, more open, more willing, more thankful, and even more funnier. Way more funnier.
So, I’m not going to look upon this latest threat to my mortality as a negative. Oh, no, no, no, no, no. I’m using it as a call to action. I’m going to use it as an impetus to accomplish great feats before I will inevitably be turned to ash in a hopefully instantaneous manner. At the very least, if Dennis Rodman isn’t able to quell Kim Jong-un’s rage and we’re all fried to KFC crispy tenderness, Donald will no longer be president. That’ll be something to look forward to. See, the positives aren’t that hard to find.
I’m hunkering down. Like, literally. I’m going to be hiding under a tinfoil sheet in my closet until someone else is president. Someone hold me. I’m going to get my thoughts together, search the depths of my soul for a bit, and think of all those things I’d like to do before I die. What things will I regret not doing when I see the blinding flash coming toward me? This is what I have come up with, so far:
- Eat an entire big bag of Skittles in one sitting. I’ve come close. One time I got damn near 3/4 of a bag in me. I almost passed out from the spike in blood sugar.
- See just how much coffee is too much. I usually only have two cups a day. I’m really curious to know what shotgunning a ten cup carafe would do to me. Maybe I’d actually get the house clean. Of course, that would be my luck. The house is clean! And we’re all immediately dead.
- Become a bestselling author. I know. I know. This one is probably not likely to happen in the next couple of weeks, but I’ve always been one of those go big or go home kinda gals. As you can see by my other goals, it’s usually a philosophy I apply only to food, but it’s the end of the world so I’m feeling a little wacky.
- Create the perfect smoky eye complete with winged eyeliner. Every time I try to recreate what I see in makeup tutorials I end up looking like the love child of Krusty the Clown and Marilyn Manson. I actually buy the same eyeshadow in the video, yet somehow it looks like I’ve used only Sharpies and charcoal briquettes to obtain my look. It’s safe to say I’m more than just a little cosmetically challenged.
- Tell an outrageous story about why my hip looks the way it does. I’ve always wanted someone to ask me what happened so I could say I was bitten by a shark or a bear or a rabid jackalope while rescuing a school bus full of innocent children. This seems like the perfect time to do it.
- Egg Gwyneth Paltrow’s house. That’s for telling women to steam their vaginas! This one’s for marrying Chris Martin. You ruined Coldplay for me! And here’s one for naming your kid Apple! What the fuck is wrong with you?
- Go to a nude beach. My body is wrecked, people. I’ve got scars in all sorts of odd places, a muffin top that’s more like a pound cake, and a birthmark on my ass that’s bigger than the palm of my hand. But, my tits, my tits are alright. They are the one part of me that I wouldn’t mind showing off. Plus, I’ve never in my whole life been skinny dipping. I’ve got to go skinny dipping before the world ends!
You’ve got to go skinny dipping before the world ends!
We’ve all got to go skinny dipping before the world ends!
Except for you, Donald. You stay covered up. We’ve all seen enough of you.
*Featured image courtesy of Pixabay.