The Future Is Yours To Forget

There is no such thing as fair or unfair, but there is hypocrisy and stupidity. I catch myself thinking about what I'll do when it all falls apart. When there's nothing left but a shambles in remain. I think I'll finally read every book in my apartment, like a hermit. It would take a year, cover to cover. I think I'll write a page every day in the style of the author I'm reading. 365 pages. A book about nothing but the contents of my lonely apartment in a voice not my own. I think I would finally visit Julie Jo in Maine and play boules next to the dry-docked boat and sleep in her barn. I think I'd finally wander around Europe alone, looking at old plaques on old buildings. I think I'd finally take up plein air painting out of one of those little wooden boxes, there on the side of the street, blissfully oblivious to the admiring or deriding looks made in my sanguinely ignorant direction. I think I might take back up the piano and finally master the ukulele the way I've always wanted. I'll take up drawing daily in my notebook like I used to. I'd take nude figure drawing classes. I'd pose. I'd become very, very adept at darts. I'd become very, very adept at horseshoes. But with the way my luck is, things will continue to go just well enough to numb my more preposterous brain. Not that anything I'd ever wanted was preposterous. Except for that bit about wanting, for once, just once, to live right on an improbably consistent point break.