by pelfdaddy wrote:When I am tempted to rejoice at the death of a particularly useless and injurious piece of shit, I think about infants. You know...those tiny packages of joy and promise that we love to squeeze. It helps me to elevate my thoughts to a level where I prefer to be--even though it is difficult--to recall that the above-referenced piece of shit was once one of these. I actually try to picture them in the crib, sitting in Mommy's lap, suckling, cooing...
There was a time when they were truly innocent. Something happened. That's all.
I have a similar strategy when I am tempted to place too much trust in the authority of an especially bright thinker. I just imagine them as infants also.
Being dead just means the end of other people telling you to shut the fuck up so they can get a word in. What a relief, when you think about it, for both sides of that conversation. We'll just ignore the people who talk to the dead. They're not talking to us, and they're gonna die, too.
What was that old joke? For several hours after death, hair and fingernails continue to grow. Phone calls tend to taper off.
Another one: Why do we rejoice at a birth and grieve at a funeral? Because we are not the one involved.
pelfdaddy wrote:I have a similar strategy when I am tempted to place too much trust in the authority of an especially bright thinker. I just imagine them as infants also.
Remaining busy, that's the key to avoiding spending too much time pondering death.
