And surprisingly, it worked. He got up while I stayed on the ground with my eyes closed, waiting for death. He and his friends rode away, and I waited until their distant laughter dissipated before I got up, dusted myself off, grabbed my handbag, and rode home silently beside my heterosexual partner. I’d like to think my bully believed my possum act, but more than likely, he took pity on my lifeless body and realized I was too pathetic of a conquest to punish further. Either way, I survived, but only barely.

I tell this story not for your pity, but to show you how I behave in the midst of confrontation. When presented with the choice between fight or flight, my body is totally like, “You know what? Let’s just shut it down. Let’s just shut this whole thing right on down and reconsider whether it’s even worth it.”

Maybe you’re like, “It’s OK, Matt. Plenty of people can’t fight, but surely you could still weasel your way through the apocalypse like a coward!” But this presumes I have other tested real-world skills.

Even if I did manage to fight my way to the grocery store for supplies, I sure as hell wouldn’t know what to do with them. I haven’t cooked a meal for myself in nearly six months, because last time I tried cooking my apartment smelled like burnt broccoli for twelve agonizing days and I refuse to go through that again. The only successful time I used an oven, I baked a batch of delicious sugar cookies (the Pillsbury kind that you literally just plop on a tray and throw angrily in the oven when you want cookies but you’re too lazy to care about life), and when I left them on the kitchen table to cool, an aggressive New York squirrel busted his way through my window and stole them right from the plate. Even when I succeed at basic tasks, my work is easily undone by even the least formidable opponent. I have no doubt, if the apocalypse hit tomorrow, that a squirrel would eat me well before any human had the chance.