Death: Just Another Reason to Live

Well, these past few weeks have been pretty uneventful. I bought the new Sublime CD (I guess the band is now officially called Sublime With Rome. It is a mouthful, but it is fantastic) and I saw the newest and last (?) Harry Potter film (it was okay, but I was waiting for the part where Ron gets impaled by the Elder Wand and Hermione turns to the camera and declares her love for me. That was the one part they left out of the book that I hoped would make it into the movie). I also came to the conclusion that the meatball sub should be sold exclusively to depressed men, because if you're eating that crap, it means either a) you're lonely and want to stay lonely or b) you've given up on yourself. In either case, the chances are you're a single male, between 18-35 years old. Every time I eat it, I am reminded of my singlehood, and as I eat I find myself getting lonelier and sadder. The only sub that seems even lonelier is the tuna, nay, the toasted tuna (mostly because it smells like fart coming out of the toaster). The only thing keeping it from becoming the official "Lonely Man Sandwich" is that I've seen a number of girls get it. Good-looking girls. That doesn't inspire much confidence in the poor ol' meatball sub (though it may make you feel better if you have to fart when you find yourself in the presence of one of these lovely ladies). It's the same feeling I get when I eat canned ravioli. Life is kind of like a can of Costco-sized off-brand ravioli. There are many meaty pieces, but even if you eat them all, you feel unfulfilled.

And why would you feel fulfilled? You ate a whole can of ravioli by yourself! That's nothing to be proud of.

So what is there to be proud of? Well, that's what I'm working on. I'm in the process of creating my bucket list. For those of you who don't know what this is, it is a list of things you hope to accomplish before you die, or as they say "kick the bucket." If I'm gonna go to my 20-year high school reunion (spoiler alert: I'm not), I want to be able to go with my head held high. And I'm still single (as previously mentioned), so I have no one to hold me back. Nothing to hold me back, that is, except money (or, more accurately, the lack thereof).

For someone who dislikes travel as much as I do (and believe me, I do), I have an incessant urge to do so. This may be considered some form of masochism. The list is actually pretty short in comparison to someone like, say, my sister. The mere thought of travel makes me just a little sick, so I'll keep it simple; Washington, D.C., Louisiana, Alaska, Lebanon, and Brazil (both Belém and either Curitiba or Rio de Janeiro - I don't have the kiwis or the Benjamins for both).

I'd also like to meet and get an autograph from Brian Wilson (once again, the pitcher, not the Beach Boy. I can't stand the Beach Boys. I think it has something to do with the cameos on Full House. There must be some psychological explanation, but I have neither the degree nor the interest to analyze it). Brian Wilson is kind of my hero. The Artie, Strongest Man in the World to my Little Pete Wrigley. The Elvis Presley to my Uncle Jesse Katsopolis (curses, another Full House reference!).

(open-button baseball jersey, classy mullet, and a douchey smirk? have mercy!)

The list goes one. I don't know that I'll ever have it completed by the time I die. But that's the idea, isn't it? To distract you from an imminent death...

Welp, good night!