Of Worry-Warts and Willingness
But if you’re serious about the art of worrying (as I am) you’ll do it in an optimal location. Mine happens to be my desk. My desk is the safest place I can think of. When my legs are twisted up like a pretzel on top of my rolling chair, and that chair tucked far under my massive black desk, it feels more like an armored tank than a desk. And I like it that way. (I absolutely refuse to purchase a table or desk not high enough to tuck my lap under it. It’s a thing with me.)
Okay, gotta go. Time to worry about the broken world. Or rather, time to worry about the world that is probably gonna break annnnnny second. Just wait.