Death and handjobs

To die is to have lived. I realized this today, standing in the grass and smoking my rationed cigarettes. Death has been all over my mind lately. This thought was comforting, though I haven't fancied myself "afraid" of death for some time now.

It's the final act, the final motion you make in your life. It is as relevant and personally monumental as your birth, but moreso for being the act of completion. It is the cashing in, the checking out and making your report. It is when you have finally lived one (1) full human existence and are officially entitled to tell other people how to live. Irony, of course.

Death comes not maliciously stalking to claim you, but arrives patiently for you to claim. I like that. I like thinking that. I suppose I'm just comprehending what a bunch of cultures have been trying to tell us all along. Feels good, though.

So, I'm that much more comfortable with living my dreary day to days, now.

I need a job. I decided to start giving handjobs for crack, then turning around and giving the crack away for handjobs. I really thought this would be a great idea until my friend's mom pointed out I wouldn't profit from it. But think of the handjobs.