How to survive the Apocalypse with a Paper Bag

One of the things that can completely knock me off balance is humanity’s adorable belief that we can control everything.

I mean… look at us. We plan pensions while our planet is on a countdown timer. We buy houseplants while silently wondering if we’ll still be alive next Tuesday.

My mind loves to help with that.

What if I get sick?

Lose my job?

My house?

My life?

My Wi-Fi?

Thinking about my bucket list makes it worse.

I should have started years ago.

Now the world is clearly preparing for its grand finale, so what’s the point?

Skydiving after the apocalypse feels a bit overrated.

I watch dolphins swim away and realize it’s too late to grab their tails and dive into a poetic documentary moment. Another dream dies. Along with my chance to feel “complete.”

But don’t worry.

Maybe tomorrow the Korean will press a nuclear button and we’ll all evaporate.

No stress though — our Nobel Prize–nominated saviour will definitely press his first. Bang. See? Safety. Control. Leadership.

Now I only have to fear the Russians, the Chinese, climate change, AI, and — please don’t tell anyone — sometimes I even fear my mom.

Somewhere in between, Vikings rise from the ashes like majestic phoenixes, ready to conquer a world that no longer exists. 

Even they look confused.

I shake my head and try to return to reality. My breath is stuck in my throat. My hands grab a paper bag like it’s a luxury product. Congratulations — I’m officially hyperventilating.

The worst part?

I know these fears are ridiculous.

Which makes them even better at surviving inside my brain.

I tell myself to go for a run.

Instead, wine finds its way into my glass.

The TV lights up. Big red famous letters appear.

Breaking news: the world is still ending.

I take a sip and quietly drown in the silence of my own existence.

Rock bottom isn’t the end.

It’s just the moment you realize you’re alive, afraid, sarcastic, and somehow still here — watching Vikings rise, dolphins escape, and the planet spins like nothing happened.

And tomorrow?

Tomorrow I might finally start my bucket list.

Or maybe I’ll go for a run — straight into the pub.