Happy End of the World!
Three years ago, I was—shock!—dating. Go to that link, read it, and pay close attention to #3. I may have a real interesting update in the near future. Like, tomorrow night.
Two years ago, I was watching boys at the gym. The funny thing is I’ve gotten to know all three of the dudes I mention in this post, and I can’t imagine them now as anything other than my bros. Which is good because they’re all taken. As is every other worthwhile dude on the planet. What.
P.S. Look at my dogs! Oh my god, they are so cute.
I was contemplating impermanence this time last year. Still am, of course. The events in Newtown have kind of forced the issue, haven’t they? Six years old. Six. Three hundred weeks. Two thousand days. That’s all they got.
It’s weird how we chronicle our unknown number of days, or what makes us aware of their passing. A lot of people cross boxes off a calendar. Some people write in a journal. Me, I’ve been acutely aware of my life ticking away since I started using a
I empty compartments four times a day, and at the end of the week, when I shake the box and it doesn’t rattle, I know another week of my life is gone. Another week. One week as the numerator, and yet there’s absolutely no way to know the value of the fraction because the denominator is and always will be—whether because of the End of Days or America’s boner for the freedom to own assault weapons or cervical cancer or whatever—incalculable. Best live as one whole, I guess.