As if this abandoned subway car-turned-bomb shelter isn’t uncomfortable enough, here I am writing yet another potentially rejected-humor piece in the apocalypse.

I mean, there are certainly better uses of my time given the state of the world, or at least what’s left of it.

I could help our colony scavenge for scrap metal to fortify our border against neighboring rebels.

And sure, I probably should use my past experience as a high school teacher to tutor our colony’s children. It’s the least I could do. I mean, these poor, nutrient-deficient kids were unwillingly brought into this hellscape after our 45th president, King, and Maker of Eternal Greatness outlawed all forms of contraception, along with recording equipment, cameras, the use of the words ‘planned,’ ‘parenthood,’ and for whatever reason, ‘meatloaf.’

But no, no. Instead of assisting my crew, here I am, sitting under the flicker of a Maglight taped to a rusty shower head, typing away on an old Dell laptop I won in a duel from two water bandits.

Ugh. Why do I even do this? Why am I up night after night writing about the Trump Slave Trade’s corporate retreat to the Firepits, or a meta-humor piece about writing a rejected-humor piece in the post-apocalyptic world?

Is it because I want to bring even the smallest amount of joy to my world, or am I just desperately trying to keep intact what little amount of pride I still have left?

That one. Yeah. It’s probably the latter one.

Whatever the reason, my writing career is still just as desolate as this god-forsaken wasteland.

What’s sadder than the stacks of rejected-humor pieces I use as toilet paper in this toilet paperless world is the fact that my group, known as “Colony 4” throughout the Skulllands, is under the assumption that I’m using our one working means of technology to contact the rumored peace resistance, “The Light.”

Little do they know that instead of hacking through the New Democracy’s firewall to call for help, I’m writing this piece which will surely be rejected along with the rest of the garbage I’ve written this week. Clearly, my need for creative validation is the last thing alive and well in this apocalyptic desert.

Anyway, you can bet my chafed ass that I’ll continue writing. Hell, I’ll probably squander every last drop of gasoline, electricity and our jury-rigged internet connection until I see one of these damn things published. I don’t care if every man, woman, child, and nuclear fallout-mutated organism is wiped off the face of the earth in the wake of my creative ego trip. I’ll keep writing until I’m either published, or the New Democracy infiltrates the dark web and shuts down the last avenue of free speech once and for all. There’s just too much at stake. The fate of our colony depends on it, not to mention the entirety of my self-worth.