I thought about death today driving home from work (no, work wasn't THAT bad), and got myself slightly riled up and nervous. I think of taking my last breath, of passing on into the unknown, of becoming a void, my chances at exploding through the universe dashed. Maybe we have to waste some of our lives. Maybe you want to understand your own mortality but have the audacity and disregard of a teenager. Maybe we have to waste time in front of televisions and in pursuit of asinine conquests. Wasted time bothers me. The concept of time in general bothers me. We gave names to the passage of the sun, named them months and days and immediately they took on a whole new connotation. Time should be irrelevant, shouldn't it? I bet if I were more of a philosopher this would all sound much more impressive and pretentious.

You do what you can with the time you have. You play the hand your dealt. But that's all bullshit isn't it? Excuses that explain situations we aren't happy with or feel trapped with. They give us comfort to live sheltered lives. This all isn't good enough for me, though. Maybe love solves these things. I've always felt a budding desire to try to explode this life, take a bite and let the juices drip down my chin (thanks "Dead Poets Society"). I have to at least try to leave my mark, don't I? And if I've only got this finite time and this one mere life, shouldn't I be out searching under stone and river for more experiences?

My grandfather died on Halloween. Does that have anything to do with this? Probably. Where's Randy when I need him to apply all those Psych classes and analyze me? A drunk driver hit my grandfather's car head on, killing both drivers instantly. Yet I don't hate the other driver. I don't know his name and don't care a damn about his life. I'm not pushed to be a card carrying member of MADD (or SADD or GADD or whatever chapter applies to me). My grandfather lived a great life, for him, full of hard work and long prayers and loving family and friends. He never flew in a plane. He never set foot on foreign soil. He never made it west of the Mississippi. He met one woman, knew one woman, and loved one woman his entire life, and he died with her next to him in a twisted mass of blood and burnt steel. Was his life successful? He died happy.

What would it take for me to say I'd lived a successful life? What would it take for any of us to say, at age 78, we were happy with how things turned out, all in all?

Maybe Dr. Phil's got the answer, the asshole.