I’m sitting in a hotel room awaiting the end of the world. It’s summer. I’ve turned down the thermostat so I can at least be cool while I’m waiting. I’m peeking through the shades and see no sign of doomsday. Curious. I’d turn on the TV and see what the news programs have to say about the end of the world, but all they do is spit out lies—lies from the government and lies from corporate owners. I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I’m scared. I don’t know what’s worse: dying here alone without loved ones or leaving this world with unfinished business. I still have sins to expiate and regrets to dwell on. I guess it’s ironic: I’ve contemplated suicide for so many years, and now I fear my demise? Maybe I’m wrong about the Apocalypse. Anyway, perhaps I’ll be checking out before it comes. When the Earth breaks apart and the lights go out, I hope I’m sleeping. I’ve purposely forewent the hotel room coffee for this very reason.