Living On Borrowed Time (Bonus)

An old nurs­ery rhyme pro­posed that life is but a dream. If Dr. Leary were alive today, he would add, most like­ly in an LSD induced state, that we’re just an imag­i­na­tion of our­selves. I have a hard time agree­ing with either apho­rism, but even if they were true, it would­n’t mat­ter.

A cer­tain glut­to­nous cat once mused, exact­ly 19 years ago today, that life can be com­pared to some­thing found on the din­ner table. Perhaps the most famous com­par­i­son, how­ev­er, was by a tech­ni­cal­ly bor­der­line defi­cient per­son who said that life is like a box of choco­lates, because you nev­er know what you’re going to get. As things go on, one real­izes that there isn’t one com­par­i­son that’s more valid than anoth­er.

Even an out­spo­ken Queensbridge rap­per has flowed, “You a killer or a hus­tler, deal­er or cus­tomer / Gangsta or buster, young­ster or old nig­ga / A weed head, a coke snif­fer / You rich or a broke nig­ga / Know you all relate to this shit that I wrote nig­gas / Life is what you make it nig­ga”, and I tend not to dis­agree.

For me, it now seems like life is sim­ply a test.

More impor­tant­ly, how­ev­er, from here until the end, no mat­ter what, life is gravy.

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