Popul Vuh

Conjoined Sommers Twins, post op

I am trying to fathom the full ramifications of the world possibly ending tomorrow. I still have a few items on the old bucket list and I am afraid that they will have to wait, possibly until the next incarnation. Not going to learn to dance tonight, or at least perform a passable western swing. Ditto those piano lessons. If I buckle down now, I still might be able to pick up the rudiments of speaking conversational italian by midnight.

The diet idea was ill conceived anyway. I am not sure if the Mayan death spiral is supposed to be instantaneous annihilation or a slow, torturous decline and I may need the extra calories in my last days. Be funny to be rolling merrily along on my stored fat while the 3% fat crowd with the six pack abs are expiring to the left and right of me. Take that, you bastards.

When the anthropologists of some future race that sifts through the detritus of our long deceased planet come upon the cuneiform remnants of the blue heron blast, and pay homage to the one bright light in the general sea of dung, I hope that your spirits will rest happily in the knowledge that you were here, experiencing the whole thing in real time.

Peace earthlings, we shall meet again in the distant future.