Every now and then, I fantasize about the end of the world. I imagine what it would be like if it were just me left (and a few loved ones, I suppose). I run through all the fun to be had — the fast cars I’d drive, the mansions I’d commandeer, and the luxury clothes I’d wear. There’d be no need to go to work, no need to worry about money, and no need to navigate the delicate waltz that is social nicety. My imagination drifts into the contented liberation of apocalyptica. But, after a while, I... Read this story
