An idea I got from my adventures in meeting and attracting women was under the innocuous heading, “28,000 Days.” It’s basically a restatement of Carpe Diem, with a twist. The way I’ve understood it and talked about it goes something like this:
The average human life is 28,000 days long. That’s a lot of days, and maybe that thought is why we live the way we do. Because there’s always tomorrow. We can say that Some Day we’ll get that dream job, One Day we’ll see the world, Eventually we’ll be living an exciting life and making stories.
But we don’t actually have 28,000 days.
Because 7,000 of those days were when we were too young to really do all of the amazing things we wanted in life.
Because 7,000 of those days will be when we are too old to jump out of planes and run, laughing and shouting, with our friends through Amsterdam.
Because for 7,000 of those days we’ll be sleeping, or eating, or waiting in line.
So really, we have 7,000 days to live. Today is one of those days, and I don’t intend to waste it.
It’s an interesting thought, no?
Yesterday started with a pretty tame house party. My roommate asked me if I knew how to make punch, and I said “no.” She looked slightly upset, so I typed something into the computer and said, “never mind, I know how to make punch. This is what we’ll need…” When I try cooking new things I generally like to eat them first, and offer the second batch for others to try. That never actually happens though. Like when I tried making Coffee’s weird onion things. My roommate’s friend came over and two poor souls had to suffer through the crispy, sweet, and at the same time totally undercooked onion slices that I had been intending on perfecting over years of hard labour.
Or when I made punch for the first time.
Fortunately, it went pretty well. There was talk of running out to get more pineapple juice after I made the third batch and everyone watched the last drop fall despondently into the bowl. Unfortunately, it seems that the alcohol content of my punch is significantly higher than the local brew. Woops.
So anyway, we were hopping over a fence and stripping ourselves as we tried not to laugh or fall over on our way to the pool. We had to jump back over to hand the vertically impaired local girls over the fence one at a time, and this aspect would probably have been the sticking point to any successful escape had we not gone completely unaccosted for the duration of our swim.
In retrospect, I think my favourite moment of the night was when we all stood there with the idea of going for a late-night, not-so-legitimate swim, and not a single person voiced an excuse to avoid the adventure.
PS: I ran out of relevant pictures. My bad. That’ll learn me for not taking pictures ever.