I have long suspected that my actuation into being was not of the intelligent design category, if you get my midriff. In the eternal search for meaning and the ever elusive obelisk of strife, I have mused over many a Smoothie and tea with honey about my beginnings. After several phone calls... well, one, actually, in which my mother feigned bad hearing AGAIN, I established that "We really can't remember, dear," in answer to my question "Was I planned?" The version of what really happened has changed so much over the years that I may as well conclude that my parents have never been in control, shall we say, of either their respective destinies or mine. It is with a heavy heart that after all these long years of enquiry I must conclude that, well, basically, my parents were "only in it for the nookie", and considering that by all accounts it was probably their last nookie, I am certainly not going to do any finger pointing. Indeed, I feel guilty that my conception led directly to a loss of interest in what is clearly one of the most pleasurable gifts from the gods.
So... why does it matter? Planned? Unplanned? It doesn't. Intention is overrated. I intend, and have intended, to do many, many things. Intention is an illusory tromtopolomorphous construct if ever there was one. Ha! Try Googling that, my bloggy fiends, and see what you get. At the end of the daze, haze, maze, whatever, I am. And I assert myself, or wound myself as best as I can. As we all do. Or should do. Life... is the opposite of death. None of us should forget that. I am reminded of the words of the great Poe in that old cheesy '70s TV series Kung Fu:
The sage has said "Others are contented, I alone am drifting. Not knowing where I am. I am different. I am nourished by the great mother. In an uncertain hour, the wise man acknowledges uncertainty."
Live well, and all.
OTHER FOETAL MISTAKES...
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Click many, many. But where's the button? Feck, it's cold in here. Time for a mug of tea, methinks.