A giant meteor is headed toward Earth. What do you do with the last day of your life?

This is an interesting question with limitless possibilities. Do I get my guns out and shoot all the people I’ve always wanted to shoot with total impunity? Do I run to the grocery store and stuff myself full of cakes and candies that I don’t normally eat? Do I spend hours fashioning the perfect anti-meteor, tinfoil hat complete with jaunty tinfoil feather? Do I run around my neighborhood, naked, singing the Star Spangled Banner just because it’d be funny?

One day isn’t really a lot of time. It’s not enough time to fly to some far corner of the world that I’ve always wanted to visit. It’s not enough time to finish the stories I’ve been meaning to write. Besides, there would be no one left to read them. It’s not enough time to even make preparations of any sort, but if the human race is about to be no longer extant, there’s not much preparing that one could do I suppose. One day is not enough to do much of anything of import.

What I wouldn’t do is run around acting a fool as if there was anything that I could do that would change anything. I would calmly accept my fate. In the immortal words of Douglas Adams: Don’t panic! If the human race has got to go, it’s got to go, and no amount of Chicken Little tomfoolery could change that. I’m surprised it’s lasted as long as it has, to be perfectly honest. I’d be happy to get even a twenty-four hour heads up.

Realistically, as predictably boring as it is, I’d probably just gather all of my friends in my backyard, break out the bourbon and the guns (just in case any of my lovely, god-fearin’ neighbors have any ideas of raping and pillaging in their final hours), set up some lawn chairs and watch the show. There is nothing in this world that means more to me than my family of friends and I can think of nothing I’d rather do with my final twenty-four hour period than spend it with those who are closest to me as we all go out with a big bang.