nowhere to hide

I’ve got good news and bad news, folks.

First, the good: I recently discovered that I can clearly hear the tornado sirens in my apartment.  This is important because a) the older I get, the less I want to die in a horrific storm, and b)… yeeeeah, no. No B.

And now the bad: I recently discovered that I’m not quite sure where I would actually go in my apartment if a storm came a-barrellin’ down upon us. Because sitting in my living room, next to the wall-size window, is maybe not the optimum situation.

Basically, there is no safe place for me to hide.

And now, Dear Readers, allow me to refute your counter-arguments for the sake of melodrama.

An interior closet, you say? Of course. Let me just crouch beneath the shitty wooden shelf that my apartment’s FURNACE rests on. I mean, how much could a furnace possibly weigh? What’s one, two or seventeen shattered vertebrae, anyway?

How about the bathtub? Oh yes, of course: the Porcelain Death Trap on the exterior wall adjacent to the breezeway / wind tunnel between apartments. No prob, Bob. After all, the construction of these units is stellar. I can only hear every single conversation my upstairs neighbors have because I have sonar-bat-hearing.

Basically, I’d be safer running outside and flinging myself into a ditch.*

*Okay, okay. I kid. There’s a space that I can wedge myself into between the wall and washing machine. And besides, I think I read somewhere… something about pipes? Go near pipes? Pipes are sturdy? Whatever. If I seriously thought that a tornado was headed my way, I’d climb into the fucking dryer if I thought it’d keep me safe.

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