I have found often times that in some of most essential moments of my life that I have had absolutely no will to do anything. Anything positive, that is. It seems that there is a thin frontier between life threatening and life changing, and the latter is frankly none so motivating until after the opportunity has issued its ultimate smirk and sauntered away into the depths of Afghanistan where even the most intense of excavations will not unearth it from the debris.

I’ve never really picked up a taste for finality. There’s just something so… final about it. It seems that no matter whatI do or say—seeing as I have lot more say than do in anything—nothing can change the inevitability of events; subsequently this regularly leads me into the Impressionistic Bowels of Gloom and Dejection, from which nothing but seventeen hours of uninterrupted sleep can retrieve me from.

This said, I wish all well, and sullenly congratulate in advance every one of my friends and acquaintances who will find it in themselves the ability to strive, extend, and overextend in their lives, thus achieving greatness, yada, and blah blah blah.