As a speck of microcosmic dust, in the scheme of the universe you are — almost literally — nothing. The universe would not so much as bat its eyelash if the Earth was annihilated tomorrow, and would continue about its routine as if nothing unusual had happened at all, which, strictly speaking, hadn’t.
Literally: it’s unintentional, but I stand with my shoulders hunched forward and my back lazily reclined, which leaves my pelvis protruding. Set this in motion, and my crotch is like a cat’s whiskers, preceding my body and feeling for danger — or pleasure! — ahead.
“Hey darling,” with a pat on the hip and then an inappropriate amount of lingering after the pat, “Another Jack and Coke, if you would!” (You’ll want to tell him you wouldn’t. You’ll get the damn drink anyway, and try to smile).
If you get trapped by a mob of angry comic book fans, you scream: “Look! It’s Alan Moore and he brought scones!” And then you book it the other direction and don’t look back. Never look back and don’t stop running. Pretend it’s like Speed, except that you are the bus.