OK, let's talk about that F-ing earthquake

There we all were, sitting in our backyards, sipping iced coffees and enjoying the breezy sunshine of a Pacific Northwest summer when BAM—that damn New Yorker article popped up in our Facebook feeds.

The big one. It's due. Nay, it's over-due. The consequences? Catastrophic. We will all die? Probably. Those of us that don't will be so brutally maimed that we'll look like Sid's creepy toy collection.

Image via Wikimedia Commons

Up to this point, we've managed to keep the looming deathquake shoved deep in the recesses of our brains. A tsunami in Oregon? Nah. That stuff only happens in faraway lands with palm trees! A skyscraper-crumbling earthquake? Is there even such a thing? Certainly not in Seattle, home of intelligent, good-looking liberals.

But the gig is up. That article has outed us. All the gorgeous hikes, Amazon jobs, Chaco tans and craft breweries in the world can't save us from the mega-quake's devastating wrath.

We almost deserve it, too. Pacific Northwest people. We're obsessed with this place. We gush about the amazing views and the sunsets and the warm-but-not-humid summers. We're braggers. What we forget is that it comes at a price. The cost? Certain death.

So, now that everything's out in the open, what should we do?

I'm asking! What should we do? 

Maybe I'll buy an earthquake kit. Maybe I'll study the evacuation route at Seaside. I'll definitely vote for any initiative promoting more earthquake preparedness funding.

Also, I'll forget about all this in a week. So will you. Back into the recesses this silly earthquake will go.

Now that's reassuring.

Yours,
Margaret