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Image by 1upLego

GUARDING CHERNOBYL WITH DISTINCTION.
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Image by DeeAshley
Even on … Those Days.
There will inevitably be one of, well..,
Those.Days.

[CAUSE AND EFFECT:]
Those days when you wonder if this is what those T.V. psychiatrists always seem to refer to as "disassociation,’ or perhaps even more accurately, an "acute psychotic breakdown."
Those days that we never expect, yet, incredibly, (unfortunately), virtually all human beings will have one or more of Those days.
Those days when you walk into your office expecting that double chocolate birthday cake.
Yet, much to your utter shock and jaw-dropping, heart-stopping horror, you’re met with dumbfounded stares – blankly and unblinking just like that cute little blond co-worker staring past you (or perhaps, through you?) . . .
She almost appears to be making sounds with her mouth, her big blue eyes appearing to have been holding back oceans now breaking free, although she doesn’t seem to care- or notice – as her corneas are now drowning in a sea of water that might very well be the infinite source of saline – she’s saying something… something… – lay-offs, FBI Interviews, lie detector tests, bankruptcy, and such. You slowly do an uneven 360 degree rotation, feeling the cold clammy pre-vomit symptoms quickly knotting your gut and working diligently and quite efficiently upward toward the diaphragm, and you swallow as hard as you can in hopes of choking back any projectiles – which would sadly consist of this morning’s Sara Lee Fat Free muffin and that and rather healthy dose of quaker’s oatmeal. The accountant comes running toward you as you instinctively take a step backwards, she stops short, wailing something about the end, "This is THE END!!" After her choking sobs were more manageable you were able to make out a little bit…
Something about the CFO embezzling all of the company assets, the investors, the pensions, the retirement, even the petty cash and the quarters unfortunate enough to be left unsupervised in the vending machine, "EVERYTHING!" Her shrieks trail off into whimpers for a moment, but like a tide gathering strength, the choking, hyperventilating, nose running unceremoniously down her pudgy red face, gathers strength once again…
After 15 minutes of careful lipreading, hugging, and firm shoulder shaking, you learn of His last possible sighting: Somewhere near Krakow, Poland; playing Texas Hold Em’ with a group of 8 foot embittered pro-Stalin, ex-soviet military men waiting with baited breath for anyone to provide them the opportunity to work out their personal anger issues with their current political views as well as their new tenured posts guarding the perimeter encompassing a well-known and lovely region most commonly called Chernobyl.
Those Days.
Still in shock staring blankly at the empty road ahead, you receive a phone call. Your son didn’t know that that giant chocolate bunny was bad for the kitty.
Your kitty.
"Mommy? How long do I have to leave this icky red stuff in my hair to make it look like yours? It’s starting to burn…!"
You were just about to ask your little loved one to repeat that last part, when you notice a disturbingly familiar and distinctive sound couple by bright lights that are flashing red and blue.
"What seems to be the problem Officer?"
"80 miles per hour?" "Really?" "In a 40?" (Gasp!) "A School Zone!"
"I’m sorry? What..? Phone?"
"Oh! [insert sheepish giggle] you mean this cell phone?"
"Inspection?" "That’s impossible! It couldn’t have been over a year-" stop. Damn stickers!
"They used to be transparent!"
45 minutes later, clutching 5 crispy new citations so tightly, you notice with no satisfaction that your bitten-to-the-nub nails have been digging some impressive holes through that wretched, foul-smelling carbon paper. The fifth ticket was for insubordination after you tell Officer Pursey what else seems to be a bit puckered as well. Despite his interjections, you were able to also remind him of what a sad excuse for a job he must have, picking on hard-working middle class citizens while there are grown men and women selling crack to kids on the street corners and how could he live with himself???
As you can see, one can never predict one of those days . . .
One must act quickly and decisively and take drastic measures in order to have the slightest chance of maintaining even the most precarious, desperate grip on that sad, thin, weathered thread of sanity remarkably similar to that which you are clawing and grasping for – any shred of mental cohesion to cling to.
[THE RULES:]
First of all, when in a rural environment such as this one, you must scream as loud as you can and bang on your steering wheel until your palms are throbbing. Sometimes it is even necessary to allow the head to slowly find its way onto the steering wheel, resulting in a shrieking noise that may cause the local canines to react in a rather agitated manner, but that’s fine. Just let the horn go, the noise will eventually drown itself out. Next, the helpless exhaustion should naturally give way to a dawning sense of indignation. This will happen rather quickly so prepare yourself to brush away any tears, mascara trails, and beware of any unintended shards of plastics or glass that may have been damaged during the end-of-the-world tantrum.
Thankfully, this horrific despair and painful psychic asphyxiation will rapidly give way to your new friend:
Fury. Rage.
A Seething cauldron of fuck-this-fuck-you-fuck-it-all-don’t-even-think-of-cutting-me-off-because-i-will-bludgeon-you-with-these-q-tips kind of all-consuming anger that flows hot and fast through your entire body. That 230 pound trucker that had intended on cutting you off takes one look into that cold empty stare and instinctively knows that this is one of those times when concessions are in order.
And Here, ladies and gentlemen, a photo is born. Who knew what that Toyota 4-cylinder hybrid sedan was really capable of until now? Although you may still be mostly(?) lucid, you’ve lost just enough of that annoying trait commonly referred to by the layperson as, "good judgement."
Before you know it, those Angus Cows are merely blurs in your peripheral, adrenaline-filled darting glances, you note an odd sensation that is reminiscent to barreling down those hilltops on your mother’s best cookie sheet after the first snow as a child. Ah, yes, that is the hydroplaning. No matter, friction is overrated.
What better way to salvage what’s left of this wretched, god-forsaken, nail-in-the-head, day than this?
You should have thought of this before!
What the hell, may as well take a picture. It could turn out kinda cool.

Supplemental:
*No cows, children, CFO’s, accountants, vending machines, felines, Toyotas, or law enforcement officials were actually harmed in the making of this photo. This sad day and its unfortunate series of events are entirely fictional, although there can be no guarantees as to the psychological wellness of the prefrontal cortex responsible for the creation of said events.*

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