Kat Sadler

I’m coping pretty well at the moment if by coping you mean playing Christina Aguilera’s ‘Fighter’ on full volume every hour of the day or I’ll have a full mental breakdown.

“Get ready for the apocalypse” A friend said yesterday. We’re all terrified. I don’t know how we’re going to break it to our kids that Donald Trump is now president of the United States.

I sat nodding pensively for a little bit too long and started to panic that she was expecting some sort of pithy response to ejaculate from my mouth. Pithy responses rarely do, but food often does. I’m very worried about making crunching noises in public too loudly, so often to bypass the chewing process I just wait for food to dissolve inside my mouth. This method is fundamentally flawed and can take hours because unfortunately its not socially acceptable to puke on it a bit first like a hungry fly.

The idea of an apocalypse isn’t too stressful for me. It’s more of a red-letter day on the social anxiety calendar, because after it happens I’ll be dead and then I don’t have to worry about any more plans being made. Better still, everyone will be dead so I won’t have to worry about missing out on any lifelong memories or inside jokes being made without me. These are two very real nightmares that very well could happen in my absence at any social gathering, and often specifically do. My friends love inside jokes. I think that’s why they all went camping without me.

The worst part about inside jokes it the fact that someone will have to explain them to me later. I have to pretend to laugh like I was there when I wasn’t – and even if I was, was I ever really there? – and smile jovially through an existential implosion that feels so physically real I am surprised blood doesn’t seep out of my ear.

But if the end of the world is nigh, I’m not too bothered because I have a feeling that I reached the peak of my potential at university; I think that’s why I can only afford off-peak train tickets. I’ve got nothing left. If I ever have a kid I’m going to get her one of those little road map carpets, but turn it over to show her how life is an unending black abyss.

I’ve regressed back into a childlike state living at home. I’ve started acting sicker than I actually around my mum just in case she things I’m faking and makes me go to school despite the fact I’m 22 and unemployed. I like to think it’s because I’m young at heart. But I also like to think have wisdom beyond my years, and I reckon they cancel each other out so I experience neither. I just can’t seem to grow up. I’m so incompetent my mum still has to cut my nails, which I think explains why she always makes them so short and bloody.

I don’t know what my calling is in life. Even if it did call I’m too anxious to answer the phone, and I’ve got a feeling ambition doesn’t leave a voicemail. I’ve been considering getting into politics, it seems like the cusp of the apocalypse might be the right time. I’ve got lots of experience in the cabinet office, and by that I mean sometimes I get inside my cupboard to do admin and cry.

An uplifting note to end on about seizing the day. I was saving my FULL café stamp card in the British library for a rainy day, but I left it to long and the café changed hands and now my card is invalid, as are my reasons for living. So, reader, use your full stamp card when you get the chance. Turn over that children’s carpet. Carpet diem. And buy yourself a clock, because there’s no present like the time.