Maybe worrying about everything that has ever happened or might ever happen will exhaust me, and when I eventually do have to face aliens/unemployment/lupus/lost wallet, I’ll be too drowsy to react.
Apparently, worry can shorten your life. If that was true, I’d already be dead.
Maybe that tin of beans we had with dinner was full of botulism. I don’t remember hearing it pop when I opened it, and I know that definitely shows that something is either absolutely riddled with botulism or perfectly safe to eat.
I can’t recall which way is which, so I will go with tradition and assume it’s the option that results in my untimely demise.
Maybe the cat will sneak out behind me when i leave in the morning and, instead of befriending a wisecracking chihuahua and a bread-obsessed pigeon, getting lost in the city, traveling crosstown to get home, and learning the true meaning of friendship - maybe she’ll just get hit by a car.
Maybe I shouldn’t worry so much about what other people think, because they are busy focusing on their own lives and the world doesn’t revolve around me.
But maybe it does.
Maybe that cut is infected. What if I lose a toe? Is it my fate to never sport a supercute toe ring?
Maybe instead of submitting my taxes, I accidentally shredded them and deleted my digital backup. What then? I am neither mentally nor physically prepared for prison.
Maybe that conversation with my boss was not, as i first thought, just fine. Maybe it was instead an unmitigated social and professional disaster. Maybe I came off as stupid and awkward and six kinds of clueless. Maybe I offended her personally on a very deep level.
From now on, I’m conducting all communication, including morning pleasantries, updates on weekends, and comments on how darned hot it is, via email.
Maybe I can’t remember any synonyms for ominous because I’m developing early onset Alzheimers. And maybe I can’t pronounce that sentence five times fast because I’m stricken with a case of the dread sluggish tongue.
Maybe that slight tinge of pain in my canine is the start of an expensive and agonizing breakdown in dental health. Just to be on the safe side, I should probably mess with it for two hours and then freak out when it gets sore.
Maybe the wiring in the kitchen ceiling lamp is faulty. If those snacks are half as flammable as they are delicious, that room is a tinderbox.
There are over 200 types of cancers known to affect humans. Maybe it’s one of those.
Maybe a clumsy heroin junkie will bump into me on the street and accidentally jab me with a hepatitis infected needle.
Maybe some impossibly complicated financial problem in Greece will result in me losing my job.
Maybe this post won’t work.