look into my crystal ball: see before you the valley of ashes

i sit at work.
i am given pictures.
i write 'catchy' phrases.

these pix generally depict sporty spice in various degrees of impractical fauxthleticism.

example one: crunchy gal in yummy fern-hued vest strolling toward big moody mountains. i write: storm warming.

example two: studly strongwoman wearing bright orange eye-assaulting shirt and playing ball with dog riverside. i write: fetching tops.

example three: holiday product shot of two fuzzy pullovers with scarves flung over them all carefree-like. i write: give fleece a chance.

and so on.

and all i really want to write -- all i really ever want to say these days -- to everyone who crosses my path all day long is: you are fucking doomed. the planet is self-destructing. and not only china. that's just easier to report than the fuck-all we're annihilating.

and it's your fault for buying that take-out ...

or yours -- see on your desk, that little plastic buddha? producing that required we release all sorts hideous VOCs into the air and leachate into the earth your very buddha sat his ass on ...

or yours for doing your nails in that ridiculous pink color and killing all the fish with the runoff going from the mississippi straight into the ocean and choking off all other flora with red algae and starving the fish and driving sharks inland to eat us ...

doomed. i mean you.