Twelve
Often when I’m sleepless, I wonder about the purpose of life. It’s not procreation. People procreate by accident. Surely a purpose would be harder to come by than that. And it’s not child rearing, because parents mess up their kids plenty. It’s impossible to raise an ideal kid, because everybody’s ideals are different. The best you can hope for is to raise a good person, somebody productive who contributes meaningfully to the world that we live in. But even if that was the case, what are we building to? Some utopia, as displayed in the old series of Star Trek? A world without issues? That doesn’t sound too bad. I…
Eight
Lying in bed at night, I think about the things I never want to hear again. I never want to hear one of IDIOT FRIEND’s bullshit excuses for why he hasn’t done work assigned to him (he once told me he hadn’t take pictures I required for a pitch deck because he couldn’t hold the camera straight due to our thirty-second earthquake), any of his mindless (and unsubstantiated) attacks, or any of his remorseful but shitty, provisional apologies. Sometimes, you offer perfunctory acceptance in return because it’s just too much effort to extract yourself from a mire of shit, stupidity, and idiocy. That’s why so many people persevere with terrible…