Right now there’s a part of me that wishes I was twenty-three years old, laying on my back in the sunshine, aimlessly drinking endless bottles of Heineken on the island.
There are some problems with this.
- It’s the dead of winter right now, so it wouldn’t be comfortable.
- If I was twenty-three years old, it would mean no wife and no kids.
- It’s illegal, and any thoughts of lawbreaking are behind me.
- I wouldn’t actually like to be drunk right now, either.
Vexing complications to an otherwise sunny mental image.
— § —
Groceries give rise to one of the most important object lessons of separation. Every time I open storage areas, I see them.
Cans of cream of chicken soup. Multiple varieties of rice and pasta. Big jars of spice and frozen goods that haven’t been touched in months.
What is the purpose? The same goes for virtually every kind of “bulk” or “storage” good in the house, edible or no, and for the endless dishes and utensils.
People do a lot of stupid things. Playing house instead of being present is one of them. The American lifestyle. What a crock.
Buy one plate per person in the house. Buy the groceries you’ll use this week. Fuck the rest.
I mean, what is the point of orphaned consumer goods that nobody is ever going to use?
Separation teaches you that all of your shit is worse than meaningless. In fact, it is dead weight that you’re going to have to figure out a way to dispose of, while being reminded of just how wrong everything in life can go, and, in fact, has gone.