I’m not going to tell you that the universe works in mysterious ways, and that all you have to do for proof is look at the way a shitty day can turn into an okay one. Because that’s crazy is why. I don’t think the universe is looking out for me any more than it’s looking out for you or an endangered species or a random subatomic particle. I mean, it’s nice to look for meaning in some things, but if you’re the type of person who can consider the impossible vastness of the universe and conclude that you are an extra special part of it and it is looking out for you specifically, then you’re probably also the type of person who buys music at religious supply stores and I don’t think we’re going to get along. You can believe in anything you want, but historically, the universe is a place of lots of happenstance and some coincidence, and most of the time, stuff just occurs inside of it without much regard to anything else.
This comforts me. I can see why it wouldn’t comfort everyone, and would in fact be disturbing and terrifying to some people, but really, when you think about it, isn’t it better to know that shitty days just happen, and that they aren’t caused by some massive karmic debt that you may or may not have accrued consciously, or even in this current lifetime? I mean, how fucked up is that idea?
Today was a shitty day. Maybe not shitty all the way through, but shitty at key points and then really shitty at the end, and that kind of shitty can just fuck your whole day up. There are days when I leave work stressed and there are days when I leave work and grind my teeth the whole way home, and even when it’s because of some random asshole with their random problems who randomly decides to take them out on someone else for whatever goddamn reason, sometimes, I can’t help but take it personally.
BUT THEN I come home to find that someone sent books through the mail. Maybe the rest of you get excited about flowers delivered to your doorstep or a note from your neighbor that apologizes for they time they got drunk and peed in your mailbox. Not me. I like books. I especially like books that, when I open to a random page, say things like:
“Bill, clearly enjoying Buck-man’s company, was explaining how to use a rocket launcher.”
I know I tell everyone that my primary interests in life are zombies, Keith Richards, Cthulu, and roasted meats, but I’ve got to say that rocket launchers (also rocket ships, rocket science, rocket fuel, etc.) are pretty high on the list, as well. I’ve got one workday left until I take a 4-day vacation (if you don’t take long weekends off work for your birthday then I just don’t understand what you’re doing with adulthood), and during the hours when I’m not drinking, sleeping, or spending at least three hours at the DMV, this rocket launcher book that came in the mail at exactly the right time will be a primary way of spending it.
(I will just talk about this Osama Bin Laden thing later, though not at length, and not with any super hatriotic (see what I did there?) vitriol. Graham is picking me up for sandwiches and beer and I just don’t have time for anything else right now.)