As I write this, the two candidates for president of the United States are debating.

I, however, am not watching. It's an "absolutely not" for me. The last time these two geriatric gladiators faced off on stage, I came within a hair's breadth of buying a pack of cigarettes and smoking all 20 of them at the same time, stuffed in my mouth in a glowing circle, like some human Bugs Bunny gag. Besides making me puke, it would also have had the effect of breaking a 15-year-long streak of nonsmoking. But I didn't care.

"I can't watch this anymore," I told my husband, a note of wildness creeping into my voice. "I'm going to the gas station."

"Why?" he asked, confused, though he was as angry with the debate as I was stressed.

"I'm going to go buy a pack of cigarettes," I said, grabbing the car keys.

"We'll turn it off," he said.

I didn't buy the cigarettes, but I realize now the risk I run. That's why I've decided to skip this debate, as well as all future presidential clashes this year. I certainly don't need any more information about either of the candidates. In fact, I could write a book about the many things I wish I had never learned about them and their extended families. I also can't imagine what kind of apocalyptic occurrence would have even a faint shot of changing my vote, and I would bet that 80% of all likely voters are in the same boat.

My husband, who dutifully watches every debate, will update me on any comedy or calamities that take place.

In honor of my choice to skip the debate and, in case I need to explain the decision to any civic-minded family members who aren't already persuaded by my threat to take up smoking cancer sticks again, I've compiled a partial list of things I would rather do than watch Joe Biden and Donald Trump debate:

1. Call a cable company to get a faulty charge reversed on my bill. Every time someone answers, I will have to explain my problem all over again, from the very beginning, only to be told that they need to transfer me to another department. The hold music will be recordings of children practicing the violin, interspersed, every 20 minutes, by the old Kars4Kids radio ad.

2. Participate in an all-night drinking contest with Marion Ravenwood Jones in which the liquor of choice is Fireball cinnamon-flavored whiskey and the referee and creator of the rules for the competition is the creepy bald Nazi interrogator with the lisp and melted hand.

3. Repeatedly arm-wrestle Mel Gibson while I'm forced to listen as he gives me his thoughts on women, Vatican II, the Latin Mass and who he believes runs the world. I will be gagged.

4. Play Monopoly with Elon Musk in which the winner must drive a Cybertruck for a year and the loser must finance a long, expensive dinner party with a guest list featuring only me and a group of bizarrely confident nudists who've recently taken a vow of silence.

5. Get locked in an escape room with Marjorie Taylor Greene, Ted Cruz and Ron DeSantis in which the answers to the clues require a deep understanding of deontological ethics and its practical applications in government, and they'll all be concerned that a hidden camera is recording them and broadcasting whatever they say live on CNN.

6. Listen to the entire discography of the 40-year-old art rock band Radiohead, in chronological order of the albums' release, while a first-year music theory student from the University of California at Berkeley sits next to me on a saggy couch, lecturing me on the significance of each song, pausing (if he thinks I'm not listening) to rewind so that I can more fully appreciate the time signature changes.

And that's not all. There are plenty of other terrible things I'd be willing to do but I'm running out of column inches, and I think you get the point.

As I've written this, the debate has concluded. Five minutes after it's done, and I've already learned everything about it that I need to know. I'm told that Biden appeared old and senile, and that Donald Trump blustered and lied a lot.

I was right. I didn't need to watch. I didn't need a crystal ball to predict that outcome. And I'm still a nonsmoker.

So, really, when you think about it, maybe I'm the winner of the first presidential debate.

To learn more about Georgia Garvey, visit GeorgiaGarvey.com.

Photo credit: René DeAnda at Unsplash