© 2011 Josh Wasted

I think it goes: Time spent wasted is not wasted time.

I’m going to forget a lot of things, that’s inevitable.  I’ll forget them all when I die.
My friend Matt argues that there’s no point in doing anything, because nothing matters in the end, not even to yourself.
Old people, on their deathbeds complain that they didn’t spend enough time loving family; but then they die, so they don’t have to regret it for too long.

When I was very young, someone told me, “Don’t mourn someone after they die if you didn’t mourn them before they were born.”, also, around the same time, someone else told me that they had seen ghostbusters 2 before it was released in theaters and that ernie hudson wasn’t playing winston any more, but winston’s father.  The first one was a platitude, the second was a lie.  The uniting truth between the two is that people talk a lot of shit.

Writing things down creates a comforting sense of permanence, until I think that once I stop paying for my hosting service, all this shit will be overwritten with new data. As a stoner, I imagine that our actions carve themselves into a indelible scrawl stretched across fourth dimensional space, like cosmic graffiti, but it’s no comfort when I’m not stoned.

All of the shit I don’t know, never learn, or can’t figure out just gets lumped together with all the things I do figure out, mingling in oblivion, sometime in the future.

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