Ah, titles. If I could do one thing for the rest of my life, it would be to create magnificent titles for shit that never quite cut it. I have to poop...I've eaten a shit tonne of vegetables today...excuse me...
There is nothing quite like a really great shit. Comforting, expected, final...a great shit is like a full life - it's over before you've read enough. If I could translate a great bowel movement into a life, I would, and be done with it. No more pressure, expectations gone unrequited, or regret. A moment of transparent tranquility and then...nothing. Left in its wake, a void colon, happy intestinal tract and murky yet forgiving H2O.
I'm moving out of my twenties soon. When that thought enters my cerebrum, I feel like fighting or fainting or fucking. Like the zombie apocalypse...you only have a few options. Eat or be eaten kinda junk. Minus the inconsequential details of the "party" and the sharing of my meager years with someone consistent, I am terrified. An era is literally over. It's as though I've slept til now, realized I've wasted ten years and settle into a deep, dank, dismal end. Have I really accomplished so little? Did I expect the Rhandi of now to be...here? Gross. I'm going to require more wine. I've tried things. I attempt intelligence at every turn. I've gone crazy and come back...mostly. Are my really splendid tricks complete? Performed, applauded and remembered only in passing vagueness? Does everyone freak out such as I? When people grew older in the twentieth century, did they lose their minds and purchase a new penny farthing? Wander on over to the local watering hole and bang fifteen "ladies of the night"? Nope. They had better things to think on...didn't they?
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