The Sumatran orangutan officially became extinct today. As I sat by the phone waiting for Big to call, I couldn’t help but wonder: Will good men be the next species to be put on the watch list?
New York’s smog had landed Charlotte in the I.C.U. But she always found any cloud’s silver lining, and before long had a date with the on-call doctor. If only they could capture carbon as fast as Charlotte captured hearts. . . .
There I was, settling into the storm shelter for the third time this month. As I bartered my last pack of Marlboro Lights for a cot, I couldn’t help but wonder: If hundred-year storms are happening every year, why aren’t once-in-a-lifetime romances?
I felt a knot in the pit of my stomach. Maybe Samantha was on to something. Maybe monogamy had become as outdated as the fossil-fuel-based economy.
Big and I had been dating for a month, so I decided to cook him a romantic dinner: dehydrated beef, hardtack, and dried beans in tomato sauce. Bon appétit, mon chéri!
They say that honey is one of the only foods that never goes bad. Which got me thinking: Do relationships have expiration dates? Can expired relationships make you sick? Also, it’s probably fine to eat this honey after using it for a D.I.Y. wax, right? ’Cause the Amazon is gone, but Brazilians are back!
I couldn’t believe it. After inviting me all the way to his Kansas survivalist bunker, Big didn’t let me leave my pink toothbrush in his medicine cabinet. I wondered: Even in a fortified concrete compound, can you ever feel secure in a relationship?
With New York descending into anarchy, I felt as though my life were descending into manarchy—a constant state of relationship drama. As I sipped my canned-peach cosmo, I couldn’t help but wonder: Where are the fallout shelters to house you during the fallout from a breakup?
They said that women with children were to board the evacuation barge first. As I stood aside with Samantha, I couldn’t help wondering: If childless women weren’t celebrated during an overpopulation crisis, would we ever be?
I stepped onto the barge. In my new Manolo Blahnik flood galoshes, I felt invincible. But, as the megaphones warned of a twelve-foot storm surge, I felt a surge in my heart. There he was, across the barge: Big. And, this time, there was nowhere he could run.
