I just ran across this article:
Night, Hoover Dam
$this->bbcode_second_pass_quote('', 'A')s I grew older, I recognized all these dreams of guns and survival and conquest and escape for the adolescent fantasies they were. But that doesn't mean that they entirely lost their hold on me. Indeed, in some odd way, the more I found out about how barely the world was held together, the more deeply some part of myself cherished the idea that I could insulate myself emotionally from all of this because, I, at least, was a survivor.
And sitting there by the slack and dirty water, I had one of those moments of scorching self-vision. I realized that I'd been hiding underneath the skirts of the apocalypse for decades now. I'd daydreamed disasters as a way of not wanting too much, not caring too much; keeping safe from the fear too much knowledge of current events tends to tattoo on your brain.
But real apocalypses are sordid, banal, insane. If things do come unraveled, they present not a golden opportunity for lone wolves and well-armed geeks, but a reality of babies with diarrhea, of bugs and weird weather and dust everywhere, of never enough to eat, of famine and starving, hollow-eyed people, of drunken soldiers full of boredom and self-hate, of random murder and rape and wars which accomplish nothing, of many fine things lost for no reason and nothing of any value gained.