He lived a little life, replete with little aspirations, little dreams, little excitement, and, by extension, little “accomplishments” too.  But that was all fine and dandy with him; he never aspired to be a game-changer, a world-shaker, a legacy-leaver, an exemplar.  His only goal in life for as long as he could remember was to live as long as he possibly could, which then logically translated into pursuing a life path as bereft of danger and perceived obstacles as humanly possible so as to advance his paramount objective of advancing longevity, even and ESPECIALLY if that came at the expense of excitement and risk-taking.  Adventure-seeking and risk-taking were best left to others badly in want of common sense; his primary concern was purely and simply to remain on the surface of Earth as a conscious entity for as long as he could.  They could fight all they wanted over the nectareous frosting so long as they left the lion’s share of the cake for him.  All that empyreal stuff on the emotion spectrum—excitement, piquancy, adrenaline, sexy add-ons— was for the losers in life. He didn’t require any of those non-essential things, and he found that through rote drudgery he could get by ridiculously easy without them. Other people could rue the boringness and monotony of his life all they wanted, but it suited him just fine.  At least that’s what he told himself, and a surprisingly large swath of his brain had actually come to believe this self-fed propaganda.

Words are not weapons unless you allow them to be.  Words do not inflict injury unless you allow them to.  Words are inherently weak and pathetic little cowards.  Words are nothing more than ghostly corpuscles of air that revert back to an atmospheric gaseous blend once they leave a person’s mouth.  Words are spineless wee things with an unfathomably short half-life; they are more overrated than a five second fuck in the fast lane, more overrated than a ten minute power nap, more overrated than Ben and Jerry’s ice cream.  The human psyche does not contain pain receptors, so how can one rightfully claim words are injurious in the classic sense?  Physical pain is a real, verifiable sensation.  When nerve endings are irritated, they respond by hurting, sometimes A LOT.  Psychological pain?  Hardly.  This is not to say one cannot have your feelings bruised by rude commentary because obviously that is not the case, but no useful purpose is served by assigning spoken words more heft than they deserve.  Physical pain, in its extreme, is overpowering and unassailable; it is fully capable of bringing paragons to their knees.  Psychological pain in the guise of having to endure insults and/or hurtful words is not.  One type of pain is distinctly bearable; the other is not.  And therein lies the seismic difference between physical pain and emotional discomfort.  They are not the same—not even close to being the same—and guileless attempts to conflate guns and knives and brass knuckles with evanescent corpuscles of air for the purpose of equivalence are both illogical and wrong.

Bitterness naturally metastasizes; it has no other option but to do this.  If forced to hunker down inside an organism for any appreciable period of time, bitterness will inevitably and insidiously destroy that organism from within.  In that sense, bitterness is no different than any other malignancy, because that is precisely what it manifests in the emotional arena, if not the physical one.

…..she thought she knew the right answer, but then again she thought Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy were real entities too back when she was short in the tooth and stood roughly knee-high to a grasshopper.  This just goes to show thoughts—standing alone—are largely meaningless and no more permanent than last night’s thick dew which the morning sun will unmercifully obliterate in less time than it takes to concoct a shitty poem about the miracle of a new dawn.  Thoughts ain’t worth squat if there aren’t deeds riding shotgun in the stagecoach to provide requisite muscle.  Thoughts will never prevail in the bullring, nor can thoughts do any heavy lifting or fight wars……

…..stringing together moments.  A life well spent is all about stringing together a significant number of sweet, discreet moments in a logical sequential arrangement.  And in deference to the maxim “Size matters!”, the more the better too.  One can never get enough sweet, discreet moments in a lifetime, hence never stop searching for them. Sometimes those precious moments may not be easily visible, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there.  You just have to roll up your sleeves and go looking for them.  And here is where I will also rightfully chime in with a bromide utterly exhausted from wanton overuse:  The journey is two thirds of the fun!!!…..

Trust NO ONE…..and trust the immanent unpredictability of the moment even less!  Surprises only befall those who are ill-prepared or completely unprepared, so never put yourself in the position of being an unwitting victim of “unfortunate circumstances” who thereupon rants and raves ad nauseum about the gross unfairness of life while seeking pity for oneself.  There is no such thing as “unfortunate circumstances”; there are only dumb, ill-prepared imbeciles who naively expect a smooth, dreamy tour throughout the entirety of their lives and then scream bloody murder and complain loudly about inequities and “bad luck” when destiny throws them a few curveballs and leads them over a bevy of speedbumps to test their mettle.  Always be prepared and never allow yourself to be caught absolutely off-guard, lest you wind up being rightfully lumped amongst the aforementioned throng of guileless dotards!

AN opportunity comes around fairly often, on many occasions multiple times in a day.  On the other hand, THIS opportunity only comes around once…..and it’s staring you in the face right now, dammittall!  Therefore, do NOT waste it!!!  The adult stage of an opportunity nymph is a fully grown regret, and from that stage no further metamorphosis takes place and this mature, ossified creature eventually withers up and dies a feeble, inconsequential death.  But an opportunity taken full advantage of?  With the gradual passage of time, this cryptic entity transforms into a beautiful six-legged creature boasting sweeping, lustrous wings coupled with a sinewy, nubile body, a creature that must eventually die also—as all mortal things do, of course—yet its death is a cause for celebration and the closure of an imaginary circle, not a reason for consternation and gnashing of teeth over glorious promise unfulfilled.  Oh yes, you asked about the geometrical shape associated with a jilted opportunity?  Well, just some grotesque, multi-sided unicursal hexagram lacking true character and pulchritude. Jilted opportunities are difficult to categorize because not much is known about them.  To wit, who in their right mind would rather spend finite time studying pusillanimous losers as opposed to risk-taking winners?

A perfectly safe life is a perfectly boring life.  These two concepts are mutually exclusive, and you cannot experience both simultaneously.  If safety is your number one priority and living to a very old age your unstated but implicit goal, do not expect your life to be very exciting or inspiring.  Excitement only comes with taking chances, with daring fate and then overcoming the bevy of traps it sets up along the pathway you choose to tread by enlisting your wits and derring-do to lead you in that daily, ongoing struggle.  You can always hide in a dark corner, shut your mouth, and maximize your chances of living to a ripe old age, but how much fun is that and what kind of example would that detestably bashful behavior set for your impressionable offspring?  Answer:  The WRONG example cubed! 

Imitation is ABSOLUTELY the sincerest form of flattery, so try not to be too offended when it happens to you as it almost certainly will. Copycats are jealous of a peculiar capability that you possess and in light of the fact they do not possess this capability and never will, they next do the easiest thing and pilfer from you.  But don’t fret the issue; all is good.  The guilty party may think they are outsmarting you, but the plain truth is they are stealing the golden egg and not the goose that created it.  These varlets can never steal the creative spark that generated an inspired product; that entity belongs only to you and no amount of mendacity will ever alter this fact.

Experiences involving love gone bad or heartbreak or any and all matters related to the heart are not learning experiences per se but rather non-denominational experiences—period.  There is little or nothing to be learned from them; the heart marches to its own peculiar drummer and operates totally independently from one’s brain.  Thus do not overreach for conclusions in any situation where love is the featured player.  Love is very much an emotion—The paramount emotion in mankind’s massive arsenal; everyone should know that by now!—but pure emotions and empirical knowledge are as diametrically disparate as opposing poles on a magnet.  You do not learn any life lessons from love gone bad; love is a disreputable actor as well as a horrible preceptor.  Because of this, you’ll unfalteringly wind up repeating the exact same mistakes as before whenever love conceitedly sashays into any equation, although “mistake” is assuredly not the right word to use in this context and I only offered it in lieu of not being able to think of a suitable surrogate for serial poor judgment when one’s brain is unwittingly being held captive by one’s besotted heart.