[D1] So you’re not really an illegal immigrant.

[This is part of a 30 day writing challenge entitled Advice For The End Of The World.] 

Background: Meet Lala. She’s a 30-something nomad who found herself on every goddamn continent on planet earth before the end of the world arrived. When the sun decided to cascade across the sky and bitch slap her, before she burned to ashes in Canada and got a tan only every white girl would be envious of, she realized this…

“I’m not actually an illegal immigrant?” 

The sky is engulfed in flames. You can’t remember if you did or didn’t give your high school math teacher a blow job senior year and honestly, you don’t much give a shit. 

It was probably horrible, much like the sun burn that’s about to ensue. You reminisce of all those who might be excited about the 3rd degree burns. 

High school cheerleaders of the creamy variety in the suburbs. Screw their monthly subscription to Total Tan, there’s a real live sun apocalypse about to go down. That means crispy for eternity. #heyyygirl

Donald Trump. Orange forever. #fistpump 

Blow jobs. The sun moves fast and erased any and all memory of such pedophilery from your mind. Of all the years you couldn’t get a tan, this was your moment. 

Advice for the end of the world: Bring a flame retardant blanket and loads of sun block. None of it actually matters. You’re going to burn to bits. 

But. 

The blanket doubles as the first of many end-of-the-world-free-love-tents. Without realizing it, having pitched your tent, you will have created the first and only sex commune in existence at the end of the world. If Wikipedia were to live on, if the cloud could exceed the death of humanity, you’d be listed as an epic cult leader of sorts. Wisdom and preparation some how translate into sexual liberation and coolness when the sun is about to eat the earth. 

When the sun is about to eat the earth. 

But as the minions are running around, lube in hand, and the sun seems to be exploding on what is now the absolute last day on earth, you remember that time you thought you were an illegal immigrant. 

Blow jobs aside, this was some serious shit. 

You remember how you came to the immigration consultation you had requested, ill-prepared. 

No one understood why you wanted such a consultation. 

You didn’t bring a pen. No f*c!ing pen! 

You did bring a bright orange coat. 

And you were in fu**ing Canada for God’s sake. 

“If anyone is to survive this,” you lament, “no one will write about your death or your deportation. Why? Because you’re American and in Canada. I will die a nobody.”

Oh, Canada. 

The lawyer stares you in the face, telling you that you only have a 50% chance of getting a work permit in Canada. 

You’re American, he says. 

And yet, you fear deportation. 

From Canada. 

He’s confused. 

Somehow your Mexican lineage has translated into severe-deportation anxiety, such that for a full 6 months you’ve believed yourself to be an illegal immigrant in Canada. 

Such that you’re still in Canada, ready to die in a flannel shirt, sippin’ on maple syrup and high out of your mind because someone once told you weed was legal in Canada. 

Weed is legal in Canada? Is that why you came to Canada, Lala?

You’re just 30 minutes from the border, but you won’t cross. 

Why, again, are you trying to get a work permit in Canada? 

You’re high. It doesn’t matter. This, you realize, is how Canadians are so calm. 

Advice for the end of the world: Smoke large amounts of weed. 

As you’re about to exit this intimate meeting, $200 less the richer, unaware you’re going to burn to bits in only a few short days, the lawyer extends his glance across the table and says,

“Well you’re not actually illegal.”

Whhaaattt? 

Suddenly the months of fearing deportation — you realize — were self-imagined. No one was actually following you or tracing your phone calls. That was just the local old man, Ron. He’s a perv, yeah, but mostly harmless.

And maybe a stray Tinder dude or two. 

The heat of the sun strengthens. You look down and realize you’re out of sun block… assholes. 

But none of that matters now, because as the sun se te acerca, you have only one thing to say to her. 

I’m legal. 

Advice for the end of the world:

Do bring sunblock.

Do bring tent.

Do not bring immigration lawyer.

If at all possible, #feeltheCanadianburn and get high. 

[This is part of a 30 day writing challenge entitled Advice For The End Of The World.]