This is usually a thought that people of elder years start to let build up within the cerebral cortex, but shouldn't we all let it marinate between the synapses a bit? Sadly, shit, for a lack thereof a better word, happens. Instead of a bucket list of things I want to do over a long period of time, I think about the one day.
You hear many people talk about their ridiculously embellished ideas of a lavish trip to a foreign country halfway around the world. Clearly these people have not put a whole lot of time into this thought. If you are living in CT and want to fly to Tahiti for your final day of life, you are going to spend 14 hours in the air, 2 hours checking in and out of the airport, and a 1 hour layover at LAX. There is an outside chance you see a D-List celebrity like Pauly Shore. carrying his puppy through Terminal C, but most likely this will not occur. You will be dropped off in a foreign location, luckily without much luggage, since lets face it, you don't need clothes for tomorrow. Meanwhile, 17 hours of your 24 hours to live has been spent dodging chip shrapnel from the fat fucks who overindulged in airport snacks, and it costed you $137 dollars in nips just to get a goddamn buzz going in air. You are now left with roughly six hours to get some sun burn before you say peace out world.
Then you have the derelicts. Usually these are your friends or family members that consider reading a horror/thriller novel to be "pushing it to the limit." They decide on their last day, they want to go Sylvester Stallone on this bitch and go rock climbing, or base jump, or let a complete stranger dry hump them from 20 thousand feet and skydive. I am all for adventure but I do not believe these folks really contemplate their actions long enough. Having never done any of these things in their pre-finite lifetime, they do not understand the dangers fully. One day to live does not mean you are the terminator and you won't die. It does not mean that you definitely have that 24 hours. It doesn't mean go out in the street and see what if feels like to be a human pinball off taxi cabs. If something goes wrong; the chord snaps, plane goes down, rock falls loose, river takes a dark turn, storm comes abruptly....your final day is cut short, just because you wanted to play librarian goes Evel Knievel.
Not to mention you are probably not going to be able to convince many of your friends and loved ones to do this with you. You will most likely be left with a bunch of thrill seeking, adrenaline junkies who have another 40 years on this planet and wont believe you, let alone sympathize with you about the fact that you are embarking on one of your final journeys. I blame Tim McGraw, Live like you were dying, for all the people that would spend their last day like this.
I have put some thought into this and I see the day playing out two ways.
`1. One day is not 1 Millionth of enough time to thank all the amazing people in my life for simply being there. My mother, father, and stepparents for their amazing gifts, upbringing, support through college, and food. My younger siblings and their love, guidance, and energy they give me each and everyday to wake up and make them proud, help them to succeed. My best friend Aaaron, and the comedy tour we never started. My close friends, my new acquaintances who have helped to make Boston a new home. The list could go on and on..but I'd bring all these people together. I supply everyone with the proper amount of red bull, diet coke, 5 hour energy shots, or cocaine, whatever is needed to stay up for awake for a full 24-hour period, and we would dance the night away, dance this life away.
2. I'd go Holden Caulfield on the world. I would become a day long reclusive animal, reaching out to only long lost friends or mild acquaintances. I would make poor, feckless, and fly-by-night decisions...I would have no one to answer to and no one to tell...other than possible the coroner at East 5th and Broadway. My bank account would be emptied and a superfluous amount of checks that I never used will be archaically scribbled onto with large sums, just begging to be bounced. I would sleep with prostitutes, drink elegant scotch, smoke menthol cigarettes with pot dabbed on the tip, and blow on the filter. I would slide comfortably into the next chapter of my life, that would undoubtedly be furnished with red and black curtains, and an insanely hot temperature.
Too far? Too dark? Good lord, who knows.
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