When we were younger, I'd get really, really restless sometimes. In such moments, I'd grasp my wife by the hands and go: "Do you ever just want to bust out, get out of this sorry so-called life, just shed it like the skin of a snake and start something NEW and something MAD and something totally DIFFERENT, take UNNECESSARY risks, CLIMB to the TOP of a BIG-ASS mountain maybe, SING bouncy show tunes at the TOP OF YOUR LUNGS, KISS THE SKY, SOAR TO THE SUN, TEMPT FATE, SHADOWBOX WITH GOD, FROLIC WITH THE ANGELS IN THE CLOUDS, THEN RUN DOWN THE MOUNTAIN BECAUSE ACCORDING TO KEROUAC YOU CAN'T ACTUALLY FALL OFF A MOUNTAIN, SPIT INTO THE WIND, ARM WRASSLE THE DEVIL, WRITE POETRY WITH A FLAME THROWER, GRAB LIFE BY THE COJONES AND KICK IT IN THE ASS AND GIVE IT THE MIDDLE FINGER, BE RUDE FOR NO GOOD REASON, JUST BURST OUT OF HERE LIKE A ROMAN CANDLE ON THE FOURTH OF JULY? Do YOU ever WANT to do THAT?"

"Not really," she'd say.

Originally posted 11.19.03