Well, it's only three days till the end of the world, and while I'm not a true believer, there are some last-chance just-in-case matters to be attended.
There's much I wanted to get done, but what would be the point now?
Of course that's one way of looking at things even without doom impending. Short philosophy-class essay-test answer: There's not one.
I have to keep subduing the urge to pack.
I don't keep a calendar, but if I did, I'd keep it current at least through the end of the month.
Hard not to resent the timing of it, as it will screw so many hard-working folks out of their already-earned summer vacations.
Makes no sense, I know, but I can't get over the idea that if I don't take along a photo ID, sure as the world I'll need one.
That "sure as the world" in the sentence preceding becomes instantly outdated and ironic usage. Or it would. Except there won't be any usage, or relics, or a past for them to exist in, wherefrom they can perform their mockery.
No over there over there because there's no longer a there here.
There's a relevant or applicable lesson in all this in the old joke about the knight going off on a crusade and leaving the key to his true love's chastity belt with his most trusted friend, and before the knight's even reached the next village, the friend comes running up huffing and puffing, saying, "You left the wrong key."
Not sure what the lesson is, though.
I think the song "The Green Green Grass of Home" might also have a lurking pertinence. But it'll apparently require me another eternity to figure out.
Some say the world will end in fire, Robert Frost thought ice. These birds expect a rapture, with the righteous whisked away to glory, while the rest of us stay behind and zombie out, perhaps eaten by dogs like Nebuchadnezzar as the world spins off to black nothing.
I've never understood why the blest are so eager to heap such lurid horrors onto the losers in these scenarios. A case of right justifies spite? Payback for old scorn? Sort of like the solitary Republican political ethic, which holds that them that has, gets, because they're deserving, and them that don't, don't, because they ain't.
I hope there's a trumpet. Or some manner of celestial curtain pull. Or at least the tornado sirens going off. In other words, that it doesn't end like the Sopranos, cut off in midsentence of an uneventful scene like somebody had pulled a plu—
John Keats asked only to be allowed "to cease upon the midnight with no pain," but was obliged to expire at age 25 of unspeakable suffering brought on by TB and idiot doctoring. Such pointless injustices won't sully World No. 2, new and improved.
At the top of the Don't Forget list: clean underwear. Can't ever have too many socks.
And having a flashlight handy is never a bad idea. The last thing ever might be your reaching for it.
And man up. Go out with head held high.
Something to read, in case there's residual time to kill during the transition.
I'm not one who'd give much thought to the last meal, but it would include a couple of apricot fried pies.
Relocations are hard for me, so I'm uneasy about this, despite the unlikelihood. You can probably tell.
I've heard the Creator made the present world for practice — so He'd know what to put in the next one and what to leave out. If it's not presumptuous I've got a few suggestions for things to leave out of the do-over.
Those little crinkly paper cups that the cranberry sauce comes in.
Rat dribble disguised as books.
Things that smell like fish, including my tap water half the time, and fish.
The expression "spot on."
The expression "It is what it is."
Live coverage by Geraldo Riviera.
Billboards that quote God.
Confederate boy martyrs.
Personified fruits of the loom.
Lizards that sell insurance.
The smell that just about knocks you down at thrift stores and nursing homes no matter how much Febreze they spray.
Gooberfests like with Louis Gohmert at Bryant.