I’ve always been the girl who trips. Not even metaphorically, like actually trips. Down the stairs, over curbs, cables, my own feet. Three weeks ago, my roommate watched me fall down half a flight on the way out of my apartment building, then down on all fours out of the Uber less than fifteen minutes later. There was a year in high school theater when I played the geriatric grandma in a musical and fell down mid-number, and the audience thought it was part of the bit. They laughed, so I committed. I had very little shame as a child – I think I was reserving all it for my twenties.

I definitely have a strange addiction to teenage post-apocalyptic movies. I suppose my generation grew up on them; The Hunger Games, Maze Runner, and Divergent series’ all debuted around the same era in my tweens, following the classic eerily prophetic “wouldn’t it be crazy if this happened” trope. While the most reasonable explanation for my obsession is the historically cyclical trend of these plotlines becoming less and less unthinkable by the day, I honestly do not think a lot of people are truly addicted – for lack of a better description to fully encompass how deep it is for me.