And me without my holocaust cloak.

So, if I may get personal with the blogging for a minute, I’d like to jot down my thoughts on the Southern California fires. And my thoughts are, "Holy crap, Southern California is on fire." Deeper than that, I would also like to express my dismay that the place I’m moving to on Saturday is so uncomfortably close to what is on fire, in a lovely wooded area, on the side of a mountain, which is where the fire spreads most easily.

Spending three hundred grand on something that should have cost four point five grand isn’t such a good deal in this situation. It’s like feeling smart for setting a big wad of cash on top of a stove and keeping part of it in your pocket just in case your cartoonishly badonkadonked step mother bumps into the wrong knob on her way to claim a big fat bag of fattening fat people food from the fat people only cupboard. Add to this the risk of earthquakes – I guess in my metaphor, the house also shakes when this fat person waddles from room to room. And then she eats the money on the stove.

The governor really is actually doing a heckuva job mobilizing rescue workers on the fire and keeping even the non-John Connor humans safe, the director of FEMA hasn’t asked "can I quit now?" yet, and there’s been no reports of rapes and murders in Chargers stadium (mostly because they ain’t playing there, OH!), so there have been disaster situations in the past that have worked out worse. Hopefully, things will settle down in the next few days. But right now having my future neighbors describe to me grand vistas of fire sweeping past them, faster than their car can drive is a little unsettling.

This doesn’t happen every year. It’s a rare occurrence, I know, and there’s even talk that it was started by arson. But holy crap. If you want to live in paradise in this country, I really think you have three options. Move to Florida and sweat your balls off and then get hit by a telephone in a hurricane, move to California and be set on fire and then crushed in an earthquake, or move to Montana and deal with super pleasant old people. Have I chosen the lesser of three evils? Even though I always end up feeling assured that I made the right decision, that question nags me.

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