The Best Goddamn Salad You’ve Ever Eaten or Go Hungry
Gang, while a cliché, it is so true that life is relatively short. When, at fifty-three, I can see how fragile things are, how quickly the wakening up to the world is snuffed out on a continual basis, I comprehend a simple truth: if you can’t muster a white hot passion for the people and the world around you, that short life is a prison. I’m not a big fan of prison, so I prefer to Carpé that fucking Diem and eat the ass out of life.
The stomach tightens and sinks.
The heart and lungs follow.
It’s a confounding reaction to a receipt of affection.
It’s familiar, and, therefore, oddly comforting.
But familiarity can be a curse.
A cursed reminder of what once went wrong when you were just trying to do things right this time.
This time it’ll be different, you say.
Why? You’re different, but what are you doing differently?