Sooner.

Well, shit. The world is ending.

Everyone got the message today—blaring on their phones like an amber alert, scratching across TVs with fuzzy white-and-black static, sliding over electronic billboards, and interrupting the mindless drone of radio stations. After all this time, it’s finally happening. A literal giant-ass meteor is barreling towards the world, and it’s going to kill us all.

I’m just kidding, I’m just kidding. We’re American. We’d nuke the shit out of any meteor that tried to interrupt our perpetual capitalist broadcast; the thing is, if everyone’s dead there won’t be any consumers left.

So it’s not a meteor. It’s actually the nukes. Radiation, to be precise. Apparently building a wall to keep the Mexicans out didn’t keep the entitled white men who were angry about, you know, feminists and gun control and medicare for all, and decided to be terrorists. Since we weren’t monitoring or building walls around them, they managed to blow up some secret plant out in the midwest, another in the north, one in Russia, and one in Asia. Oh, and they managed to dig up lots of the nuclear waste in France and build a few bombs with those, which they also blew up.

It’s enough radiation that we’ll all be dead in seven days.

To be honest, I always kind of felt like this day was coming. I guess that’s one benefit of having an anxiety disorder; someone says, “Hey champ, the world is ending,” and you say, “Really? Well, that’s how it feels every day.” But this time it’s real. Which kind of fucking sucks.

Because here I am with an engagement ring in my pocket, in none other than the armpit of the world (Walmart), standing next to some old guy that smells of dill pickles, and watching the end-of-the-world broadcast play over the television. My nose starts to tingle and my head starts to pound—my anxiety trying to tell me that I’m already feeling the radiation poisoning. Which is impossible. Maybe if I’d gotten around to meditating more I could enjoy my last seven days a little better.

“Well, sonny,” the old man rasps, turning towards me. The first thing I notice is that he actually said sonny, which I thought only happened in movies. The second is that he’s balding and covered in age spots, wearing a tucked in button down, khaki pants, and a brown belt. I wonder if he was a player in the 1940’s. I bet he was. Suit, slicked back hair, big brown eyes, James Dean hair, really good at dancing. “It’s not so bad for me,” he goes on, pulling me back to the present. “But I guess you feel slighted, eh?” He chuckles and bumps my arm, shuffling away with his cart. I’m simultaneously comforted and deeply disturbed by his humorous take on things.

But really, what can you do? My whole generation has fatalistic humor and has been anticipating this day. We just thought it would be climate change or student loan debt or lack of mental healthcare that’d kill us, and that we’d have a few more years.

And just think how worried I was about proposing at “such a young age.” I’d always thought I should wait until I was thirty, but now twenty-three seems ancient.

Maybe we’ll get married today, if she says yes. A six day honeymoon that never ends doesn’t sound too bad.

I head towards the front door, bypassing the six packs in favor of a nice aged whiskey. I’d always thought I would make a good klepto. Missed a chance, I guess. I should grab weapons, or provisions, or something. The end of the world always looks like the Purge in movies, and I know there won’t be much left. Instead I just frown at a mother and her baby—that’s one regret, maybe the biggest. And then I veer towards the bakery, snatch a sheet cake (her favorite), a case of fudge (my favorite), a bag of crunchy Cheetos (everyone’s favorite), and a pack of Twizzlers (because why the hell not?). Radiation poisoning probably won’t end pretty, but we still have enough benzos from her wisdom teeth surgery to OD on if need be.

I walk past the now-crying employees and through the front doors, ignoring the alarm, slide everything into the back of my pick-up, and drive through the neighborhood streets I’ve seen a thousand times before. I’ve lived here my whole life, and I’ve never done any of the good stuff. I was in school, I was working, I was depressed. I didn’t go on any hikes. Didn’t dye my hair any fun colors, didn’t spend nearly enough time with my siblings, didn’t ask my parents about their lives, didn’t eat enough cookies, and didn’t have enough goddamn fun. I wasted my time worrying. Wasted my time planning. Wasted my time wanting. I had spent my whole life afraid. I had spent my whole life, like money dropped down the sewer grate.

But I had seven days now. Seven days to live.

I hit eighty on the small roads, windows down and radio blaring. I wish I’d started a garden. I wish I’d quit school. I wish I’d spent more time at the beach. But wishing won’t do anything now. It’s do or die, literally.

I skid into the parking lot of the local pound, tires squealing, and step into the hot midday sunshine. Honeysuckles, roses, and wisteria fill the air with their sweet scents, gravel crunches underfoot, and the tall, ancient trees brush against one another in the wind. It’s a gorgeous day.

The whoosh of air conditioning hits me as I stroll into the pound and behind the now-abandoned desk, snatching up a set of keys. The euthanasia room yawns, yellow-fluorescent lit, behind one door, the table cold and flat. I never believed in the death penalty for murderers; I can’t believe they allowed it for dogs.

Gray cement and dim lighting swallow me whole as I turn left into the back room. Row upon row of cages stretch before me, but I take my time unlocking each one. Patting each dog, cat, and creature. There’s a garage door at the end of the corridor, and sunlight streams in when I shove it up. Some of them rush out, barking and bounding, but others are cautious, waiting in the dark.

I used to be cautious.

“Come here,” I say to two of the cautious ones—a gray cat and a German Shepherd with one missing ear. I grab the cat and call to the dog, tugging them both into the truck with me.

It was time to go home. Go home, ask the love of my life to marry me, show her our two new pets, get sick on cake, fudge, and whisky, and have a damned good time.

If only I’d done it sooner.