12/12/12

The next perfect number day on the Western calender is 2/2/22.  I'll be over forty by then, assuming I'm still alive, which is something I know that I really shouldn't do.  I feel as if I should do something epic on this day.  It is in its own way much more significant than just another birthday or Christmas.  Maybe bury some prized possession of mine somewhere out in a frozen cornfield to either dig up myself fifty years from now or leave it in my will for whatever heirs I might have to do so, or maybe just dinner at the Indian restaurant here in town, or maybe today is the day I march to the top of a tall building, rocket launcher in hand to finally challenge God to a no-holds barred fight like I've always intended to.  Maybe an especially savory pizza with soulful tasting sausage and plenty of mushrooms.  In my spiritual journey I have become utterly convinced that assuming that the apocalypse must be dramatic is pure masturbation.  Reality will simply turn off like a switch is what's going to happen.  Exactly the same as what will happen when we all die mundanely in bed on our own account.