I’m convinced that if I plan well enough, I will die peacefully in my own bed. This is because I’m a planner. I have no patience for characters who don’t plan well. McIrish and I were watching a very bad movie last night about London flooding (but Tom Hardy was in it, so I was willing to suffer everything else). As we were watching the movie, I said, “Why don’t they just go into one of those skyscrapers and push the elevator button for the 40th floor, huh? Because the water’s not gonna reach the 40th floor, is it? No, it is not. Why are those people sitting in a mall parking garage, for the love of Tom Hardy?” McIrish, who may have been dozing, made sympathetic noises to my outrage.
This type of disaster movie, I believe, prepares me for all sorts of horrific scenarios. I know how to survive shark attack (don’t go in the ocean), zombie attack (cardio), bear attack (play dead and pack some heat) and bull attack (don’t become a rodeo cow or bullrider). I won’t drown in my car, because I have a tiny tool on my car keys that breaks the windows and slices through seatbelts, so we’re all set there. I may never have mastered the rosary, but I do know how to exorcise a demon and/or kill a vampire. I excel at self defense (eyes, throat, groin, ladies! Hard, fast and simple). In addition, I look both ways before crossing the street, am alert for foul balls at baseball games and don’t jump on subway tracks for fun.
If I am mown down by a bus, it will be very embarrassing indeed.
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