I’ve been slacking off a bit in my bloggatory duties to you, gentle readers. So for that, I apologize somewhat profusely. I’ve been lazy. And I haven’t really worked that hard to shake ideas out of my head. It’s the end of the year, the midst of the holiday rush, and there has been much to do.
But I figured I should probably get in one more entry before the world gives up and cedes all reason to the Mayan calendar.
If all of the overblown hubbub is correct, and don’t for one minute believe it is, the Mayans calendar comes to an end tomorrow, and because it comes to an end tomorrow, some people have come to reason that the ancient civilization decided that there would be no more use for this mortal coil for either humanity or earth after this date.
Of course, they could just have run out of paper. Or stone. Or whatever it was that they wrote their calendar on.
Or the old guy whose job it was to write the damned thing down finally kicked the bucket, before they could get an intern assigned to him. And by the time they discovered his withering corpse, the elders looked around at each other and realized they had not a single clue in the world how to write a damned calendar. The Calendar Scribe took all of the knowledge with him.
Or the intern simply couldn’t figure out the old guy’s archaic rules and ended up putting some VIP’s birthday on a Tuesday. Think about it: how’d you feel if that ever ended up being the case?
No perhaps not.
Or it could be that the Calendar Scribe just got tired of doing his job. Or couldn’t stand Calendar Management anymore and took a job over in stone cutting because they weren’t as big a collection of assholes. Or maybe he just decided that that was it: he and Mrs. Calendar Scribe were finally going to take that vacation they’d talked about. They’d been hearing good things about a place called Texas, and thought that might be a good place to visit.
Or maybe the Mayan leadership had to shut down the government due to a massive economic debate which was arguing over whether rice and chocolate should be taxed, and whether there were too many government workers, including the Calendar Scribe. And once they finally got things settled and back to work, the Calendar Scribe was a victim of governmental downsizing and was reassigned to wall carving–“writing a calendar is like carving pictures on a wall, right?”
Okay, maybe I’m getting silly, but what if the world is going to end tomorrow?
Well, I’m sorry I won’t see or hear from any of you anymore. I’ll miss doing what writing I do here. I’ll miss seeing my family, really miss hugging my wife, mostly miss talking to my kids, and probably miss smelling my cats. I’ll miss eating cheese. And sushi. I’ll definitely miss eating sushi.
I’ll miss the sights, sounds and memories I have and those I’ve yet to experience. I’ll miss enjoying my family at this Christmas. I’ll miss the ritual of kissing Jenni on the forehead every night when I head to bed. I’ll miss finishing eating my chocolate truffles.
Those parts of the world that are already experiencing tomorrow are reporting that things are OK. So we’re probably in the clear. If not, I just wanted to let you all know that, as you’re vaporized in the last death throes of the planet, I loved each and every single one of you.
See you tomorrow.
If it comes.