It’s a Nice Day for Nuclear War

Caffeine makes it hard for me to go to sleep. No, really. And I think it definitely has a weird effect on everyone, in one way or another.

But the other night? It was weird on a whole new level. (Except for that time where I couldn’t remember how old I was, and since I am really bad at math, I thought I was a whole year older and got upset that I wasn’t living life to the fullest. Oh my god, you have NO idea how I wish I was making this all up).

As I lay awake in bed, quite literally staring at the ceiling and wondering why my head wasn’t as blank as it was, I started to worry. No, that’s not the right temperature of things: I panicked.

I kept envisioning these horrible scenarios about my life and I couldn’t help how they turned out. Then, my brain pulled the worst Jenga piece out from the leaning tower, and asked me the following question: “What if there is nuclear war before I can get married, in a year and a half?”

And I know, I know. Just like a true bride-to-be, I’m thinking about myself before the whole world. What do you mean you don’t care which color napkins we pick? This is a matter of national importance! I bet President Obama would never stand for this ugly shade of mint!

But breaking out into a cold sweat, I didn’t rationalize this thought away like you would think I might. I metaphorically patted myself on the head and said, “Oh, well you and your fiancee are about as close as you can get to being married anyway. Haven’t you lived a long enough life?”

Weirder still? That crazy psychology actually worked on me. I calmed down; my breathing and heartbeat slowed. But not before realizing how absurd it was that I think that I could ever stop nuclear war from happening anyway. I mean, it’s coming.

Look at America. We have Donald Trump (in which many a psycho, and perhaps many a sane person, would line up to be able to say that they were the one who took him down) and we have a woman (in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not sure if all of the world is #withher or not, simply because she’s… a she.) I mean, we’re on the brink of something, and shave my head and call me Sinead if it isn’t something violent and ugly. And yes, perhaps nuclear.

So, look. I’m not here to spout off my opinion. Heck, I’m still on hiatus for all it’s worth, and there’s no way that one lowly blogger’s opinion is going to rise to the top of this political trash heap of bad hair and bad pant suits.

Because I can admit when I don’t have much power to control something.

But that doesn’t mean I can’t vote and change things (hopefully for the good). I hope you remember that, too.

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