In our post-nuclear wasteland, the only survivors will be the cockroaches. We’re taught this myth from a young age to make us feel insignificant. To make us feel helpless. To make us pliable to the demands of the cockroaches, as if befriending them could somehow ensure their help if we were to find our lucky selves still awake after the mushroom clouds have cleared. The cockroaches will help no-one. The roach lobby lies.
So who will survive the longest in a nuclear winter?
The fat. The slow. The lazy. The alone.
The ones who stay put. The ones with less need. The ones who already have the energy stored in their bodies. They don’t have to go out to battle the looters on the way to the supermarket. They’re not out there burning off calories by trying to source a new, fresh supply of water for their family. The queues of corpses at the petrol station are of people with somewhere to go. The skinny cockroaches get eaten by the bigger cockroaches.
You want to survive? Get fat. Get slow. Spin an inpenetrable web around yourself.
You want to live? That’s another story.
Scaryness: 10. It only looks like a 3 today, but lurking deeper lies a 10.