Maybe us pudgy pork roast types have it right
I got to thinking how most people think about their weight and size daily.
Probably more than that.
Fat, thin, whatever.
We scream at ourselves silently about what we eat, and how much of it.
Well, after we’ve stuffed ourselves with warm, fatty deliciousness. 10 minutes of joy, a few times a day. I mean, that’s as close to nirvana as most of us will ever get.
When the thing we should be focusing on is being light of spirit.
They say you lose seven pounds when you die. That’s the weight of the soul.
Granted, on the eve of democracy’s death in broad daylight, the weight of my soul is equivalent to what my digital scale spat out this morning.
Seems funny to worry about the Triple Peanut Butter ice cream I got from Cherry Smash that I enjoyed for breakfast today.
Once these fuckers rob us of our life savings and freedom to spend it, I’ll wish I could get these pre-Auschwitz 2.0 days back.
Because they will be gone and one day, too, so will we.