It’s also where few people question the logic behind heeding the stone-calendar-based prophetic warnings of an ancient people whose neighbors thought the Spanish invaders on horseback were gods and not human beings.
Does it matter what day the world ends on? What sitcoms will be on TV the night our show gets cancelled?
When you take your final breath and realize your dirtnap has begun, what will you remember? Will you leave behind clean and neatly folded clothing in your drawers? Will your socks be paired?
We’ll all have a few seconds to remember all the things we said but shouldn’t have, and all the things we didn’t say but should have, before consciousness leaves us for the final time.
Perhaps you’ll say out loud, “Man, it sucks the world is ending. I thought I had dozens of years left to work at my awful job while thinking over and over again about just how woefully short of my personal expectations the shot-put throw of my life has landed.”
Maybe you’ll just think it.
Does your life flash before your eyes right before it ends? Probably not.
It’s likely just a clever myth shared all around the world to make people believe that when other people are in the process of biting it hard they think about their first kiss and childhood pets instead of the more likely scenario which would include them thinking only about how painful and not legit their death experience feels.
Shakespeare only got famous because there weren’t that many writers back when he was alive.
Ol’ Billy Shakes was like the Cool Runnings of authors. He probably wasn’t the best Jamaican bobsledder of his day, but he was one of the four in the country who knew a bobsled was a thing and not a person at that time.
“A coward dies a thousand times before his death, but the valiant taste of death but once.”
I don’t remember what I scored on the math section of the GED, but the quote above is incorrect and stupid. It doesn’t matter if you are scared and spineless or baselessly confident and strong.
Either way, when a fireball the size of a Tom Raper dealership slams into this spinning blue-green sphere of mystery and injustice we call home there isn’t going to be a pause button to hit or a place to hide.
Our species will show the greatest amount of togetherness in its history by all dying nearly simultaneously. Many of us never figured out that you’re supposed to let people off the elevator before you get on and that if everyone walks on the right side of the hallway no one will get bumped into. Finally, we all have roles at which we can succeed.
Another looming certainty is that if anyone survives the initial impact of whatever is going to kill us all, they are going to complain. First they will complain about their loved ones dying. Then they will complain about being left behind in this ruined world. Either way, they’re going to whine and generally be unpleasant to be around.
We’ll all rot into the ground. Maybe someday in a few million years you will get pumped into a sports-utility vehicle. If the dinosaurs couldn’t stay alive forever, there is no way humans will. We buy protective sleeves for phones. Dinosaurs had spikes.
If we all die, there will cease to be a realm of existence and place for us to be hateful toward people because of their ancestry or sexual orientation.
Don’t worry, though. If human life ever re-spawns from the ashes or some Pyrex lab beakers, we’ll get right back to hating and gritting our teeth at each other like we did in the good old days.
When you care about things, it’s likely that you will end up being disappointed. Life really is like a cosmic Dave and Buster’s, where you are supposed to amass tickets and buy things with them. The problem is that if you don’t want the prizes being offered, there is no point in playing the boring games.
Unfortunately, the Mayans probably didn’t know that the end of the world is coming for sure. If they did, they would know what manner of death we will meet. There is no way you could know how everyone is going to die and on what date but not tell them. If they really knew, people of Mayan descent would have been telling anyone who would listen about how long they would be on fire for, or if they’ll be devoured by locusts come 12/21/12.
We could all be dead-eyed carcasses by the time our next batches of bills are due. Expertly crafted stories like mine, and all the ones thought up by less talented writers, won’t matter.
This story doesn’t matter, but you read all of it. This is a fine example of how much time you still have to piss away and how many stupid things remain undone in your life if the Mayan Doomsday Jubilee fails to perform as billed and help us all take a final bow.
Time will tell. One can only hope. ©
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