What’s the point of living, anyway?
There are 8,760 hours in a year. I think we sleep for 1/3 of them, wait in lines for 1/4 of them, work for the rest of them. Somewhere in there, I suppose we eat sometimes, too. Pretty much, I think we get like 100 hours a year to do the things we really love to do.
Or so you think.
The truth is, I love sleep! Enjoy the heck out of it, and certainly don’t get enough. I enjoy waiting in lines. Traffic is no problem when I’m alone, I get to listen to Morrissey or the National full blast. Love that crap! Working? What’s that? I get to spend tons of time with different people every day and become life-long friends with them. I bust my butt for my clients, but it’s not work because I love it. And I love them. In fact, I like real estate so much I’m assuming someone will pass a law making it illiegal some day. I’m certainly addicted to it.
When’s the last time you smelled a flower? Honestly? When is the last time you made a list of the things that you were grateful for? Ever put your shoes on to go for a run and feel grateful for legs that run? To even have feet? What about the money to buy those shoes? I know people that can’t do all three.
When is the last time you stuck your tongue smack dab into the middle of a bowl of ice cream? Screw the spoon. Just dove in. Have you dipped your feet into the ocean while sunbeams danced across your face on a sweet summer day lately? Seriously, you downer jerk-faces out there. GO AWAY.