With calories and migraines no longer worries, I would eat all the things I’ve eyed at the supermarket, knowing their curious contents would send my head spinning and my waistline into creating its own orbit. I’d eat the cheeses I can’t; I’d drink red wine. Feast as though there’s no tomorrow.
Because there wouldn’t be.
It’s strange. As a writer, you consider all kinds of scenarios, from utopian to dystopian, and they’re always prompted by the question “what if?”
But “what if” has never felt so close before. Not in my lifetime. And we know that hiding under desks, the stuff of grainy info footage, will do no good. With today’s nuclear warheads, bomb shelters are unlikely to do any good. And even if they do, then there you are, in a box, air and water tainted for millennia.
But on the plus side, we have John Podesta’s risotto recipe, so there’s that.
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