Here for It; Or, How to Save Your Soul in America: Essays

by R. Eric Thomas

Four in the morning is objectively the next day and I will hear nothing else about it.

I’m not sold on the idea of meeting anyone I haven’t yet met, and I find myself at a loss during conversations in unfamiliar settings. I also hate small talk. What am I supposed to do with it? Small talk is always shouted. “Nice weather we’re having!” Okay, well, the ice caps are melting, so lower your voice, honey. Small talk is purposefully avoiding every interesting thing there is to say.

What is the act of making it? What’s a red flag and what’s just a weird personal detail that you can spin into a charming anecdote? The line is thinner than you think.

What’s a Christmas tree without a theme? A busy bush, is what it is.

If you don’t have theme colors for your Christmas, do you even believe in Christ?!

This is going to sound morbid, but if someone invents time travel and then accidentally breaks time, I just hope I die the day before. Like, in my sleep or something. Because, ultimately, I’m not end-of-the-world material.

We are not going to band together and listen to a bunch of scientists to save humanity like Jake Gyllenhaal in a disaster movie. Sorry. You know how I know? Because a bunch of scientists are telling us how to save the world right now, and half the world isn’t listening to them.

Listen. Here’s my living will, okay? I have no desire to survive the apocalypse.