Wednesday, July 18, 2012

Now don't get me wrong; I'm not suicidal or psychopathic. I'm not interested in going out looking for trouble or trying to bring down the world as we know it. God knows things are messed up enough as it is without me  stirring the pot. I'm just bored. Real life has exceeded my attention span and I could use a good excuse to do something different.

The dead rising or a hostile alien invasion would most definitely rip me from my perfectly adequate suburban lifestyle. I doubt I would survive. I have no real skills to speak of, unless a zombie horde can be stopped in it's tracks by bullshit. But surviving isn't the point or at least it's not the point of my interest in an apocalypse.

With cyborg overlords pointing a laser at your head, your 401(k) ceases to matter. You don't really need to think about that car payment or a mortgage on a house you're not even sure you like. Even without the cyborg and the laser gun, I try to tell myself that none of that really matters. I try to tell myself that I should go out and take chances and push the limits and live like tomorrow is the apocalypse. But the reality is, it does matter. Society has ingrained in me this drive to succeed. Not survive. Succeed.

I don't even know what success is. Do you? I think it has something to do with that convertible sitting in my driveway and the path that I chose that has thus far led to an exceptionally dull but secure career. But I am really not sure.

I would love to say screw it all and walk away, to go try something new and exciting. But for me to let go and let life take me where it leads, it would take me either winning the lottery or being forced into it by some extreme turn of events. I think we all know what the odds are.

So I dream of the apocalypse.