Salon’s running an interesting story on those Y2K “wack-jobs.” (Seriously, the author actually calls them that. Ha!) I hate those people. They remind me of when I used to work in a grocery store in my small town, and every time the weatherman predicted a storm we’d get a rush of old people buying jugs of water and flashlights. I’d stand there at the cash register, all of sixteen-years-old, thinking, “Wolcottville, Indiana is the last place anything remotely interesting would happen, let alone something environmentally catastrophic.” I really think there’s a deep human desire to hole up in a bunker for some reason. Either that or my natural optimism is once again setting me apart from the hordes of paranoid wack-jobs around me.

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