There are days when the world feels like it’s gently wobbling off its axis and then there are days when a 6-foot, 17,000-pound meteor casually tears across the sky at 44,000 mph over Ohio like it’s late for a meeting.

And no one told me.

Apparently, according to NASA, this celestial overachiever clocked in about 50 miles above Lake Erie, lit up the sky, waved politely to a bus garage in Olmsted Falls, and kept it moving. The National Weather Service even caught it on camera, which feels both reassuring and deeply suspicious. Like, thank you for documenting the possible beginning of the end?

Because here’s the thing. I cannot be the only one whose brain immediately went to Men in Black.

You know the scene. Flash in the sky. Everyone pauses. Someone in a slightly too-crisp suit appears, smiles too calmly, and suddenly we’re all being told, “Nothing to see here.” Meanwhile, something with opinions about humanity has just landed in a cornfield.

And listen, I’m not saying that’s what happened.

I’m just saying strange things are happening during some very strange times.

We are collectively living in an era where reality feels like it’s been workshopped by a team of overly caffeinated writers who keep rejecting subtlety. Pandemics, plot twists, public unravelings, private reckonings and now, meteors making dramatic guest appearances over the Midwest like they’ve got a SAG card and a point to prove.

It’s a lot.

But here’s what fascinates me and its not the meteor itself (though, wow, hello existential reminder), but our reaction to it. We don’t stop. We don’t gather in the streets and point upward in awe like humans used to do when the sky spoke. No, we watch the clip, maybe text a friend, think “huh,” and then go back to answering emails.

We are so overstimulated that even the cosmos has to compete for our attention.

A literal fireball streaks across the sky and we’re like, “Was that before or after my 3 p.m. Zoom?”

And maybe that’s the quiet psychological plot twist here.

Because while the world feels chaotic and unpredictable, we’ve become oddly acclimated. Not calm. Not grounded. Just used to it. We’ve developed this almost eerie ability to absorb the extraordinary and file it under “Tuesday.”

But every now and then, something cracks through the noise.

A flash in the sky.
A moment that doesn’t fit neatly into the algorithm.
A reminder that we are small, and the universe is very, very not.

And instead of fear, what I felt and what I keep feeling, is this strange mix of awe and humor. Like, of course, this is happening. Of course there’s a meteor over Ohio. Why wouldn’t there be?

Maybe that’s how we cope now. Not by denying the absurdity, but by meeting it with a raised eyebrow and a slightly inappropriate joke.

So if you see a suspiciously well-dressed person adjusting their cufflinks and asking you to “look right here” while holding a small flashing device…

Just know that I called it.

Or don’t worry. You won’t remember anyway.