Sunday, March 26, 2017

Jumping Off the Caboose

Every minute I spend blogging is a minute I'm NOT spending disaster prepping. I'm just going to come right out and say it: I'm 100 percent fucked when the Zombie Apocalypse comes. There's no way around it. 

But ya know what? Cool. Cool.

The truth is I don't care. I want to care, but I don't care. Like, I'm not remotely prepared for the End Times, the zombies, Hurricane Shirley, Trumpocalypse, or whatever vengeful karma the Universe next unleashes on the human race for fucking everything up so royally, even the saber-toothed tiger and giant sloths which were awesome and why we can't have nice things. Not even glaciers.

I know I'm in the distinct minority here in Alaska. I mean, we have flashlights, CO detectors, and fire escapes, but I'm talking about a more intense level of shit storm. Like I have a friend who's a professional disaster prepper. Among other useful skills, he knows exactly how many pounds of rice and beans our town--with no roads in or out--needs to survive some Jerry Bruckheimer mushroom-cloud type shit for a year. 

Dude's closet has a LOT of rice.

Then of course there's everyone else I know, who is simply an "incidental" disaster prepper. They're ready for disaster even when they're not trying to be. They have a giant garden and three chest freezers full of hot dogs they shot themselves. They know how to drive boats, but if there's a run on gasoline or a riot, that's chill, because they'll make a cruise ship out of a tree stump and start a fire by blowing on two pieces of wet gravel. 

I can't compete with that. I just can't. 

Like, I want to be more competent in this way, but I'm too lazy to learn, and I am officially middle-aged now. I can do some basic shit, like spark up a few twigs with a cigarette lighter and avoid poison berries and stuff. But I vastly prefer my survival activities to be well-planned affairs that involve peanut M&Ms, a water filter, and a USFS cabin receipt in my back pocket. 

Intermittent cell reception also a plus. Just saying.

Anyway, both disaster prepping and beating myself up for lack of disaster prepping come down to a single, narcissistic anxiety fundamental to the human condition: 

Thinking it all ends with you.

Every generation of human beings thinks they're the last one. And one of them will right, eventually. But it's a pretty good bet that statistically no one alive right now will be in it. If I'm wrong, I don't really want to be around long enough to worry about making a cruise ship out of a tree stump for survival reasons, anyhow.

I think about this every time we lose power (like we did today), whether it's caused by an avalanche or an eagle. It's a huge privilege to assume your power will come back because someone will fix whatever the problem is. 

Personally, I'm not counting on anyone else to save me when the shit goes down. Not for a minute. I recognize that I've made my apocalyptic bed out of soft skills like typing, adult coloring, and honing my emotional intelligence instead of learning how to shoot a zombie in the face with a 12 gauge shotgun as he lurches toward me at top speed.

Which is the point I'm getting around to. Who needs empathic listening and gel pens if you're on the caboose of humanity's train? 

Answer: No one. 

So don't worry, my prepper friends, I know you'd help me if you could, but I wouldn't ask you to. Your carefully-allotted cache of Pilot Bread and peanut butter rations is safe, because I am DEADASS jumping off that caboose at the very first sign of a  trestle.

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