There’s been a lot of running around the last couple of weeks. Friends and family. Fun and funerals. Dogs. Really awesome dogs. Critters that don’t really require anything more than love and food.
Yesterday I listened to a fire and brimstone preacher tell a grieving, captive audience that the end is near. I’m pretty sure he’s on the right track—I’m just not sure the source of the destruction is going to be the rapture. But what do I know? I’m a writer who can’t spell. An amateur philosopher without an audience. A relatively happy person full of pessimistic thoughts and doubt. If judgement day is coming, I suppose we should stock the fridge with good beer because I’d hate for my last drink to be Coors Light in a gimmicky cold-activated can. If I’m going to hell, I hope to go in style—with a nice microbrew in one hand and a locally-sourced bratwurst or pork chop in the other.
In the meantime, I’ll try to show up at work on time. I’ll try not be an asshole when people don’t use their turn signals. I’ll try to make damn sure to remind all the good people I know they’re amazing. And, most important, I will try to give this sweet dog all the love and attention he can stand. Speaking of which, it’s time for the morning walk. If I see the devil roaming around the neighborhood, I’ll see if I can buy us a little more time. Maybe he’s interested in an old iPhone?