The Death Clock says I'll live to be 79 years old. If you're not busy on June 23, 2057, come on down and party life away with me. We'll play dominoes and watch scary movies.
The way I figure, I have about twelve more years before I'm due a midlife crisis. I should probably hilight this day on the calandar so that The Hater will have fair warning... The irony is that the world will probably end and gyp me out of thirty years (to yield an eternity).
It's heavier than the pit of my full stomach.
This has been my attempt to avoid making a Thanksgiving Day post about the things for which I'm thankful, because really that's none of your business. You don't care that I've got a fridge of leftovers. Because in the scheme of things I know that my next 52 years on this earth won't be monumental; it'll be the same everyday adventures and miracles that I've been having, that you have. And in the end it'll be my most precious memories that bring me comfort, not knowing that I painted them on a large billboard for everybody else to read.
Carpe diem, my friends.