When I first heard the theory that the world would end at the end of 2012, I was in the sixth grade. My history teacher was the one who told us, an entire class of very gullible twelve year olds, who probably all went home crying. I worried about it for weeks. I even remember making all sorts of plans on how to avoid death in 2012. One such plan involved a sort of escape pod. I was twelve. Cut me some slack. My dad told me to stop worrying. He told me, “If it ends, it ends. There’s nothing you can do to stop it.” He was right, so I didn’t worry anymore.
I know that end of the world scares are bogus, and sometimes humorous, but I’m sure that we’ve all thought, “What if it actually ends?” For my sixth grade mind, I imagined that I would be sitting with everyone in my family in the living room. That seemed a good way to go. Actually, what I’ve done in the past twelve hours has been quitting my horrible job, going to my best friend’s b-day party, and now I’m sitting on my bed and writing a post with six hours and twenty-two minutes on the clock until zombies. Or aliens. Or solar flare. Or something more insane.
What will I do with the remaining six hours?
I’m taking a shower.
Reading a book or two.
And then I’m going to sleep. (I’ll still be cheesy and set my alarm for four thirty just so that I can see for myself that I’m not dead. Heh. Heh.
The thought of dying doesn’t scare me. I view it with Peter Pan’s philosophy. “To die will be an awfully big adventure.”
I don’t believe that the world will end, but if it did and someone spent one of their last hours reading this, I’d feel pretty important.
Thank you, dearest readers, for listening to my craziness. You greatly inspire me.
Peace, love, and joy,
Sara
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