I pointed an accusing finger at the cat. “What good are you? Did you even try to kill any of those things?”
The cat gave me a “Not my problem, bitch” look and proceeded to lick the area where his testicles used to be.
I have a new blog, Amy C. Amy Do, and I write words on it. Funny words. I’d love if you would read them.
Awkwardly long hugs to each of you!
“average person fails 3 astronav exams in lifetime” factoid actualy just statistical error. average person fails 0 astronav exams. Arnold Rimmer, who is a smeghead & fails over 10,000 times (
or 11 or 9 or 13), is an outlier adn should not have been counted
They’re just words. Syllables on a page. Not even a page. Pixels on a screen. They literally have zero weight. Insubstantial as the flash of electricity between the synapses in my brain.
They do have a heft. The dent they leave on your heart. The ripple they make in your subconscious. That effect is substantial. It can be measured. Not in kilograms or feet or minutes.
We need a different unit of measurement for the toll a failed relationship takes on your heart. For the residue life leaves on your soul. It may have zero atoms in mass, but what we drag with us every day has a weight, it’s as dense as lead, carries the gravitational pull of a planet.
Every day I am flattened by the mass of my emotions. I should be standing on the surface of Jupiter (if it has a surface) for all the tonnage I feel piled on my shoulders.
There are moments. When I can feel weightless. As if I’m bounding across the surface of the moon, taking giant, leaping steps. These moments are fleeting, doubtless totaling the actual time humans have spent on our moon, but they are just as real.
And that is my life.
Crawling, scraping, from one blissful weightless moment to the next.
That is life.
Words and all