Squiggle’s daycare was creating emergency kits for each child. One of the things they asked the parents to supply was pictures of themselves. That way, if there was a natural disaster, and the child was separated from his caregivers, he could at least find comfort in seeing them in a photograph.
It’s embarrassing how long we agonized over this. We were all, like, “Oh god, not that one–I don’t even think I brushed my hair that morning. Maybe one of these two? Tell me: if Mount St. Helens just erupted, and you were cowering in a log cabin at the base of the volcano hoping that not to be consumed by molten lava, which would you find more soothing: this picture where I kind of got a goatee thing going, or me in the leather jacket and the sunglasses. I mean, you can’t really see my eyes in the sunglasses one, but I look pretty awesome.”
But, then, you never know. Maybe in the post nuclear-holocaust wasteland, your standing in society will be judged entirely by the genetic stock you hail from. And Squiggle will assume his rightful place as superior to those kids whose misguided parents bequeathed photos where they are squinting into the sun or wearing unfashionable jeans.