apocalyptic

I'm shivering with fever as I write this. There's so much I could be writing about. Do they still move the hands on the doomsday clock? I could be writing about that right now if they do. I could be writing about all of the stupid ways humanity is destroying itself.

But all I can focus on is today. On what I was hoping would just be a quick Memorial Day phone call, wrapped up in blankets despite the warm weather, drinking a cup of tea. And she answered, noise in the background--having more fun than I was, obviously. "Hello?" and "I can't hear you, hang on," and "Hello? Are you still there?" before it was finally "There you are! How are you?" and "I'm great," and "I can't talk long," and "Can I call you back after the party?"

And I'm saying "Sure," and "I'll be here," and "It's not like I'm going anywhere." And there's no phone call and I'm just reading through all the news and wondering if maybe I should be afraid or upset or concerned or angry or sad--but nothing. Threats of UN resolutions, talk of hostilities and war breaking out and immediate action, and I'm waiting for a fucking phone call. It's four am. She's not calling. She's asleep or passed out or staying up until dawn talking to her friends, sobering up as the dawn approaches, sharing that deliriously exhausted sunrise with someone that isn't me. And I'm shivering and wrapped in blankets and drinking tea and staring at the screen, because I am just a man, and I'm not above all the stupid ways humanity is destroying itself.