I Lived in a Post-Apocalypse Future and All I Got Was This Stupid T-Shirt

After the war to end wars to end wars, there was only dust and ash. After the lights went out all our favourite celebrity chefs, influencers, and reality television stars were culled by the ragged remnants of government. After the bombs stopped falling, the poison gas had settled, the air cleared, the rains came, and the bombs stopped falling, humanity set out to rebuild. Some said it was a wild west, others that it was a brave new world, but the truth is, it was grimy and dirty and a just a little bit shit. Landfill workers were venerated as saints. Without them, the world would have been knee deep in shit in a matter of weeks. Instead, it was just calf-deep. Ships plied their wares across the ruined sea-lanes of the world. The old laws were dust and ash, but the Markets endured. In the markets, you could buy anything. A lungful of oxygenated air, a bottle of clean water, a day pass to a public toilet, a preacher promising a better life in a better world, a pimp promising what only a mother could deliver, a mercenary promising to keep you safe from all the other dangers. Insurance was a solid business, and armed escorts a growth industry. In the evenings, my girlbbfriend, Penelope, and I would go to the near-beer hall, listen to the blues played by an authentic man-machine hybrid, watch the light from outside the windows fade, and dream of a better life before the apocalypse. I was a shift supervisor at the local cannery, but I dreamed of something different, something exciting, something better. One night, before the apocalypse, I had been out with my friends drinking. During the evening, I met a girl with no name, and she had told me that if I wanted something to happen, I should make it happen. She was right, of course. But how? Before the apocalypse, the history books had told us that the major cause of death during WW1 was not machine guns or poison gas or artillery, but mud. Cold, wet, dirty, shit-filled mud. You didn't die from the cold and the wet, you died from the cold, the wet, the dirt, and the shit. In the Markets after the apocalypse, just like in the trenches before them, people died from the cold and the wet and the dirt and the shit. But I didn't. Nothing could kill me, after all. I had no family, no friends, no hobbies. Just Penelope. Penelope had no family, no friends, no hobbies. Just me. It was enough. One evening, an old man walked into the near-beer hall, and gave me a telegraphed look. The man-machine hybrid looked at him, looked at me, and nodded. I made my excuses to Penelope, went outside, and old man, girl-with-no-name, telegraphed-look, and all, went on my way. I died that night, but it was OK. Nothing could kill me. (take two) Ships plied their wares across the old sea lanes of the world. The sea was wild and free, just like on Feed the Birds and the Baby Birds Learn How to Fly. I was a sailor on one of them, the [REDACTED]. We sailed out of [REDACTED], around the world, and back again, carrying the lifeblood of trade with us as we sailed. But there was something wrong. Part of me was drifting away, becoming disconnected from the world. One evening I met a girl on the dock, and we talked, and she told me that if something wasn't happening, make it happen. And she was right. But how? After I left on the next voyage, I told my girl, Penelope, all about it. "It's weird." she said. "I met a boy. He was nice." "That's nice." I said. "Ships pass in the night." "Yes." she said. "They do." "Ships of state." "Yes." "What do we do now?" "We go on." "Do you believe me?" "Yes." "I love you." "Yes." "I have no family, no friends, no hobbies. Just you." "Yes." "It's enough." "Yes." "It was nice." "Yes." "It was nice just to be nice." "Yes." "I lived in a Post-Apocalypse Future and all I got was this Stupid T-Shirt." "Yes." (take three) I was a Shift Supervisor at the local cannery. I had a girl friend and I had a mortgage. Part of me was drifting away, becoming disconnected from the world. I went to my doctor, she sent me to a specialist, he diagnosed me with nothing wrong. Just my head. I went to therapy, I tried to remember my childhood, to uncover repressed memories, to connect with my wild side, to remember what it was like to touch the grass and be ok with that. "Pathetic." "I know." "You are broken." "I know." "You can never be fixed." "I'm sorry." "It's OK, nothing can kill you." "I know." "We can try to make you better." "I know." "We can try to make you whole." "I know." "We can try, but there is no hope." "I know." "It's OK." "I know." "I lived in a Post-Apocalypse Future and all I got was this Stupid T-Shirt." "I know." (you are here) It's cold, it's wet, it's dirty, it's full of shit. But I don't care. I'm not from around here. Nothing can kill me. How do I get home? [Edit: Hey guys, don't sweat it if I don't answer your questions. I'm not from around here. ]

I Lived in a Post-Apocalypse Future and All I Got Was This Stupid T-Shirt

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