It is my savior.
May the space heater be with you.
(and also with you)
Pray 4 Me.
I’ve quoted this many times over the past few months (I’ve been misattributing it to Louis C.K.). I love it.
I love it because it sounds so sad, but it’s not. It’s liberating and it’s allowed me to focus my energy on what matters..
First off: it’s not entirely true. Plenty of people care. Your family and friends care.
But for all practical purposes, it is true. Let’s say there are 7 billion people on the planet, and let’s be generous and say that you have 70 people in your life who truly know and care about you. That means that 99.999999% of the people on Earth don’t.
6,999,999,930 of our fellow humans might be mildly impressed by your success – that is, if they notice it at all. By the same token, a few of them may notice if you fail, but they probably won’t. This means that you’re free to live your life without the burden of impressing “people” or being embarrassed in front of them.
And note that this is coming from Ricky Gervais, the best looking and most successful celebrity of our era. I’m certain he’s not being flippant here. No one (again, in practical terms) really cares about him, and he has 5.5 million Twitter followers.
Gotta go. I’ve got to get back to caring about the 0.000001% of the population that matters to me.
I also like this a lot. It’s a good tool. My variations include “Life is Meaningless”, “We are all dust”, and “Nothing you do matters.”
Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli. Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab. Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves, rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer. Reality is beans and tofu, and ashes at the end. Reality is the strip malls of Burbank, the smokestacks of Cleveland, a parking garage in Newark. Fantasy is the towers of Minas Tirith, the ancient stones of Gormenghast, the halls of Camelot. Fantasy flies on the wings of Icarus, reality on Southwest Airlines. Why do our dreams become so much smaller when they finally come true?
We read fantasy to find the colors again, I think. To taste strong spices and hear the songs the sirens sang. There is something old and true in fantasy that speaks to something deep within us, to the child who dreamt that one day he would hunt the forests of the night, and feast beneath the hollow hills, and find a love to last forever somewhere south of Oz and north of Shangri-La.
They can keep their heaven. When I die, I’d sooner go to Middle-Earth.