Yesterday, I found out my sister’s wedding coincides with the apocalypse.

I’ve known about the apocalypse for months now—in fact, I was discussing it with my boss when the mail arrived. Sorting through it, I found a cream-colored, rice paper envelope with my sister and her fiancé’s initials embossed in the front. The ceremony will take place on July 25 at 2 p.m. in St. Patrick’s. The apocalypse, in turn, is supposed to happen at the Meer (or rather, under it) at 2:29.

Now, I’ve never been one for weddings. I can’t walk in heels and I don’t own a single dress. Fighting evil (in boots) has always been my forte. Besides, saving the world takes an incredible amount of time and effort, and I am absolutely instrumental in its success. None of my co-workers can execute the East Arabian hex that we need to stop the forces of evil from breaking into our dimension. And I can’t very well be expected to sacrifice a goat in my bridesmaid’s dress and then dance at the Waldorf-Astoria…