After speaking with my parents I'm left wondering and fearing what catastrophe I'll inevitably meet.
My life, thus far, has been boring. Exceedingly boring. I am shy, insecure, and prolifically phobic. A boring life suits me well.
I have enough fodder for writing to get started (as an aside, why do they call it fodder; isn't fodder poop?). All this fodder now has me asking "why is my life exempt from all of this excitement?"
Perhaps my life will have some watershed moment of tragedy. The generations of family will forever know me as "Danny. Creek swimmin' Danny. The one that died from the amoeba. Yeah, that one."
Don't get me wrong: I don't envy the action. I also realize that the only thing I'm probably doomed for is quiet. My protective parents have coddled my fears and capitalism has me running on a faithful cycle of produce and consume. My time has been saved for a story sans adjectives. That's fine. I've come to terms with it.
But if I do get tired of the quiet boredom when I'm old I'll just do something crazy and everyone will mark it up to senility. "Crazy old Danny. He pushed off in a little sailboat and never came back."
what I listened to while typing: Devotchka - Little Miss Sunshine soundtrack