Fish scales and rivercrunk
Today is the first day I’ve felt a little less like a visiting alien and a little more like this is the place I belong. Not a hundred percent though—that, I think, will never happen. I’ve been using the temporary fix to get through the day of asking myself about every little thing, will this matter if an asteroid causes planetary obliteration in twenty-four years? Not surprisingly, the answer is usually, ha ha! Of course not!
Which is freeing, but maybe not the best worldview to have, just in case that asteroid misses or Bruce Willis blows it up or some shit. So tonight I’m going to pull off the shelves the dusty philosophy tomes I haven’t read since I was a philosophy major and dropped out of school seven years ago, and have a gander into trying to reconstruct some sort of appropriate way of living that doesn’t involve hoping a meteor will turn Earth into a cosmic cinder.
Hopefully, that also means I’ll get on track enough to start reading others’ blogs again and leaving comments that don’t have to do with resignation to the fickle hands of fate.
Speaking of which, Sweet, when are you going to start a blog? C’mon. It’s not that hard. You don’t even have to post anything of quote-unquote value. You can write about cat turds and people will read it. See? I just wrote about a cat turd, and you read it.
If anyone has any burningly passionate recommendations of philosophers you think I ought to read to get my head out of God’s ass, please recommend. (If we’re really made in his image, which I have doubts about on around sixteen hundred and two levels, then God poops too.)