I have the sort of mind that loves to pick everything apart. I question everything. I want to know why, how, when, and what time are we meeting for dinner again?
I’m not spontaneous, just like most of us introverts.
My father and I used to play a game we loosely called, “But why?” He always knew the answers to my childish inquisitions, but I did stump him on occasion.
Do earthworms pee through their skin? Yes. Yes, they do.
There’s more than one way to skin a cat. What an awful saying. I was going to look up the folklore behind it, but I’m not in a morbid mood right now.
Really though, what fun is life without some morbidity thrown in occasionally for good measure? Boring, that’s what. I say boo to that.
I recently read somewhere that life is just an illusion that we create within our own minds.
Maybe this existence is more like a bedtime story ala Rod Serling, something to gnaw on while you lay awake at night, staring at the ceiling praying for sleep to give you a chance.
Will you remember you read these words 10 minutes from now?