I can just throw myself out the window of my burning, ninth-floor hotel room, arriving with a splash on the pavement, or on the hood of some unlucky illegal alien’s cab.
I can try the rickety-looking fire escape, MAYBE making it to the ground at less than the speed dictated by the acceleration of gravity on a falling body, MAYBE living another day.
OR, I can wait for the fire to cook me alive.
Rotten choice? Hell, yes.
Hard choice? Hell, no. I’m trying the fire escape — Romney 2012.