Bread and Bricks

 

Sometimes the fact that I'm in my forties worries me a little. Audwin the Black Belt said, "The reality is man, we've got more years behind us than we do ahead of us." 

Great pep talk ATBB.

I have a nagging feeling that I may have neglected something in the years behind me. Kinda like when you walk out of a room and suddenly think, "Wait... I was supposed to do something… What was it?" So you go back into the room hoping whatever you were supposed to do will come back to you. It's as if somehow your memory has fallen out of your head and when you go back it will surely recognize you, saying, "Oh there you are! I was looking for you. I've been wandering around this room bumping into things because it turns out, I am a memory and I have no eyes." And with that, it will jump back into your head.

The funny thing is most of the time this works. But sometimes it doesn't and you wander around the house, searching for what you've forgotten. Then you suddenly remember it a week later as you're about to drift off to sleep. Apparently whatever you had forgotten was hiding under the covers the whole time.

Like I said sometimes I worry that I've forgotten something I was supposed to do in my twenties or thirties, back when I had a lot more energy. I'm not sure what it was exactly. Was I supposed to start my own business before the added weight of a marriage, mortgage and children? Was I smarter back then or just more fearless because I didn't know any better? I certainly don't feel dumber. Then again, I don't feel much smarter either. If anything I think I'm just a bit more shrewd.

What would have taken me an hour of sheer effort in the past, now takes me fifteen minutes of thought and five minutes of effort. I think that's mostly cuz I know I no longer have an hour of sheer effort in me anymore. Before I would have just leaped headlong into a problem, solving it with nothing more than will and brute force. Now I sit and think about the problem, attacking it from all angles in my mind. I don't make a move until I think I've figured out the simplest way.

If I find there is no simple way to solve my problem, I hire someone. Thereby making it simple once again.

Physicists have a theory that likens the universe to a big loaf of bread. Our particular universe is on one slice of that loaf and there is an alternate universe sitting next to us on another slice. In that other slice, I have made completely different decisions than I have on this slice. On yet another slice, maybe I don't even exist. (Clearly that world is a dark and desolate place). It goes on like that throughout the loaf, different decisions create different realities and different slices. (Those familiar with comics will recognize this as being similar to the D.C. comic book universe. Physicists could have saved themselves a lot of math and just picked up a copy of Superman).

My friend Kevin the writer says he wishes he could open a hole and see how the alternate Kevin lives. He's afraid though that the other Kevin will tell him, "Remember that expensive sports car you always wanted? Well looky-here! I got it! Oh and by the way, I'm rich and date nothing but supermodels! Life here is great! How are things in the wife-mortgage-two-daughters-universe?" Alternate Kevin would just piss our Kevin off. He would have no choice but to throw a brick at his head, killing him instantly, thereby de-stabalizing all existence throughout the entire loaf of reality.

Which is probably why it's a good idea that Kevin the writer doesn't have the power to open a hole into all the different universes. 

He's an idiot. He would definitely f*ck everything up.

Here's the thing, I've actually thought about every different iteration of me that could exist in all the different realities. The versions of me that married different women; The ones that didn't marry at all; The ones that had different children; The ones that have no children; The ones that started a business and are independently wealthy; The ones that started a business and are independently broke; The ones that wear corduroys. Everyday. Even in the summer. I've thought about all of them and you know what? Almost all of those guys turned out to be a**holes. Trust me all those other versions of me f*ck everything up for everyone so you're lucky to be here on this particular slice of bread with me. (It turns out, all the different versions of me are kinda like Lex Luthor). The notable exception being the guy who became filthy rich from writing The Franklin Chronicles. 

That cat is deliriously happy.

I keep a brick with me at all times specifically for that guy. Just in case I ever get the power to open a hole in the universe.

Pot Pies

George and the Best Day Ever!

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