The world is slated to end in less than three days, and I still have never tried a whoopie pie. I have not been to Morocco or Azerbaijan or Kentucky. Worse still, I have not yet dyed my white strand of hair purple.
And it's killing me.
But, I did discover the world's best bread rolls (no hyperbole, I promise) at a random, overpriced lunch spot midtown east. I also managed to injure almost every joint in my body, save my left shin. I fell in love, fell out of love, broke hearts, had my heart broken, mended hearts, and once even ripped out my own. I felt anguish. I witnessed the first multiracial American President, the death of Steve Irwin, and watched the entire I Love Lucy series. I experienced death of innocent children. I lost faith. I learned that you cannot buy babies from Stop & Shop (those baby carrots are actually carrots!). I witnessed the discovery of the Higgs-Boson, and I fell in love with the beauty of the universe. I was given a telescope, Backstreet Boys cassettes, and lime green overalls. I was given hope, strength, dreams. I wrote half a book and ate entire footlongs. I got a love letter, I sang songs, I flexed biceps. I conceded to my flaws, to my inability to tell time, to my inability to tell failures, to my inability to let go. I went surfing, I drank sangria, I destroyed my large nose with a permanent, crispy sunburn. I made beautiful friends. I got a sister, a real one. I was always liked by my parents, even when I threw tantrums, even when I cried. I cried endlessly. I laughed, made jokes, poked fun, laughed and laughed. I went to India, to London, to Paris, to Alsace Lorraine, to Germany, to Dubai, to Canada. I ate cole slaw in the Dominican Republic and got sand in my underwear in Puerto Rico. I ate chocolate in Switzerland. I went to Alabama and ate delicious sour dough bread. I went to the Niagara Falls more times than any human should go. I danced. I wore red lipstick. I scoffed at religious fanatics and was fervently devoted to my friends and family. I ate Greek salad. I only liked orange juice every two months. I could never figure out how to fix my hair. I let flowers dry out and die out. I overdosed on Groupons. I embarrassed myself, I was jealous, I was betrayed. I liked 90s television. I liked sipping wine with my father, touching my sister's nose, and sitting on my mother's lap. I hated socks.
The world has already started to deteriorate. Earthquakes and hurricanes have crippled entire cities and states; war has ravaged nations and staved innocent children; and the fight for affordable medical services continues. People are suffocating, starving, suffering. If we do officially "pop" (or snap or crackle) on Friday, then I don't think we should belligerently yell "carpe diem" and go forth with fulfilling our deepest desires. Rather, we should all take off our socks, put on syndicated television, and with our beautiful friends toast to a world that once was. We should drink to the moments we could share, and forget all about that epic road trip to Kentucky we could never have.
Raise your glasses, friends. We've had a good run.
And it's killing me.
But, I did discover the world's best bread rolls (no hyperbole, I promise) at a random, overpriced lunch spot midtown east. I also managed to injure almost every joint in my body, save my left shin. I fell in love, fell out of love, broke hearts, had my heart broken, mended hearts, and once even ripped out my own. I felt anguish. I witnessed the first multiracial American President, the death of Steve Irwin, and watched the entire I Love Lucy series. I experienced death of innocent children. I lost faith. I learned that you cannot buy babies from Stop & Shop (those baby carrots are actually carrots!). I witnessed the discovery of the Higgs-Boson, and I fell in love with the beauty of the universe. I was given a telescope, Backstreet Boys cassettes, and lime green overalls. I was given hope, strength, dreams. I wrote half a book and ate entire footlongs. I got a love letter, I sang songs, I flexed biceps. I conceded to my flaws, to my inability to tell time, to my inability to tell failures, to my inability to let go. I went surfing, I drank sangria, I destroyed my large nose with a permanent, crispy sunburn. I made beautiful friends. I got a sister, a real one. I was always liked by my parents, even when I threw tantrums, even when I cried. I cried endlessly. I laughed, made jokes, poked fun, laughed and laughed. I went to India, to London, to Paris, to Alsace Lorraine, to Germany, to Dubai, to Canada. I ate cole slaw in the Dominican Republic and got sand in my underwear in Puerto Rico. I ate chocolate in Switzerland. I went to Alabama and ate delicious sour dough bread. I went to the Niagara Falls more times than any human should go. I danced. I wore red lipstick. I scoffed at religious fanatics and was fervently devoted to my friends and family. I ate Greek salad. I only liked orange juice every two months. I could never figure out how to fix my hair. I let flowers dry out and die out. I overdosed on Groupons. I embarrassed myself, I was jealous, I was betrayed. I liked 90s television. I liked sipping wine with my father, touching my sister's nose, and sitting on my mother's lap. I hated socks.
The world has already started to deteriorate. Earthquakes and hurricanes have crippled entire cities and states; war has ravaged nations and staved innocent children; and the fight for affordable medical services continues. People are suffocating, starving, suffering. If we do officially "pop" (or snap or crackle) on Friday, then I don't think we should belligerently yell "carpe diem" and go forth with fulfilling our deepest desires. Rather, we should all take off our socks, put on syndicated television, and with our beautiful friends toast to a world that once was. We should drink to the moments we could share, and forget all about that epic road trip to Kentucky we could never have.
Raise your glasses, friends. We've had a good run.
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