Geelastic
The Venerable Writings of Gavin Shulman: Updated Every Tuesday-ish (gavinshulman@gmail.com)

          I might be going through my quarter-life crisis. I’ve been thinking about death a lot lately. What it all means? Why any of it matters? What will happen after I’m boxed and buried–will I just lie there?

          Then again, I’m 25. And I’m not going to live until I’m 100. I’m not going to be like one of those withered, white-haired people in India who live so long CNN comes and films them. I never want to be ancient. Truth be told, evaluating the situation as it stands, with life expectancy rates where they are, I’m probably really suffering my third-life crisis.

          Though, I really like fast food. And beer, and rich sauces, and sitting around watching TV, and soda, and stimulants, and getting wound up and too frustrated and mad and yelling and blowing a gasket, and barbecue sauce, and Twizzlers, and not exercising, and feeding my vegetables to the dog under the table, and driving fast, and fatty meat, and eating things off the ground, and going out hatless after a shower in extremely cold weather, and swimming after I eat, and liquor with aspirin, and anything deep-fried. In fact, I don’t really like anything that’s that good for me. So, I may not even make it past fifty. This could be my mid-life crisis.

          It’s also very possible that in a few years I could go to bury my newly deceased beloved bunny rabbit Raisins in my backyard and when I stick my shovel in the soft ground a spurt of black gold could bubble and hiss and then explode shooting up into the sky. All of a sudden I’ve discovered a new oil source becoming a multi-millionaire overnight. I’m living the good life purchasing whatever I want as well as donating to multiple philanthropic causes, springing to fame and fortune with my face on the cover of every magazine. But then Russell Ray Hobbes a right-wing environmentalist fundamentalist resents my rise to richness and my contribution to carbon emissions and global warming and sends me a gift-wrapped package in the mail which I open and BOOM it blows my head into my indoor pool and I’m dead before I even get to ride the personal jet I just ordered. This could be my three-quarters life crisis.

          I’ve always wanted to travel and see the world. Visit every continent at least once. And, who knows, I could be on a flight to Cambodia to check out the pagodas of Phnom Penh when a bolt of lightning strikes the tail of my passenger plane sending it in to a downward spin crashing off the coast of India in the Bay of Bengal. I grab onto my seat and use it as a floatation device hoping to reach dry land only to be swallowed by a bluntnose sixgill shark looking for a snack after an especially tough day of swimming the salty sea. I wanted to go to Cambodia soon. This could be my seven-eighths life crisis.

          Actually, come to think of it, I’ve really wanted to start getting a lot more into action sports. Pushing my limits. Sky-diving, bungee-jumping, hand-gliding, paragliding, wrist-cutting, alligator wrestling, driving my car off cliffs, Russian roulette, swallowing copious amounts of pills, seeing how long I can hang from my neck, sitting in my car and just letting it run. I’ve really just wanted to start laying it on the line more. Taking a few more risks. This could totally be my eleven-twelfths life crisis.

          I could drop dead tomorrow. I could go to bed tonight and never wake-up. I could go walking down the street after this sentence, my heart could burst, and I could keel over and perish. This could be it. The last thing I type. The last key I touch. The last thought I have. This could be my end of life crisis. My death-bed confessional. My last write. The ultimate crisis.

          Though if that is to be the case, then I suppose that the proverbial cookie has already been crumbled into the proverbial spilled milk running under the proverbial bridge. And I’ve already paid my taxes. My time is up. My plan has been executed. It is what it is. I guess that’s the thing about life crises. What’s the point?