What’s the point of living, anyway?

Photo by Jason Crittenden

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.


There is TOO MUCH to be happy about. Too many people to meet, to serve, to love. Too many great stories to be told, and too many momories to be made. What’s the point of living? Everything, and everyone. That’s what.

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