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Luck is relative.
Odds don’t lie.
Over a long enough simulation, the probability will do what it is predicted to do, in precise proportions.
If one pays attention, they begin to notice the patterns. They become as apparent as your detachment, but with a greater purpose…
Tangible implications rather than transcendental happenstance.
It’s all about timing.
Carpe the god-damned diem, and whatnot.
You find the table with a hot wheel and who knows…
With a little run good, you may be able to sleep in a bed tomorrow.
These things happen, you know.
It will be different this time. One for the books… The stuff of legends.
In the end, hard work does always pay off. But if what you earned can’t replace what you’ve lost, your hard work meant nothing.
The difference between liquid and solid is one-degree. The difference between life and death is an abrupt kiss on the cheek, after the drop.
By your calculations, descending at a stable stomach parallel to earth position, the terminal velocity of the human body is approximately 120 mph. Though, if one is in a particular hurry, they can implement the head down technique, providing one is in a stable enough free-fall, of course.
This reduction in surface area and consequential reduction of resistance, will allow you to reach speeds of over 175 mph… Some say 180.
Anything worth doing, is worth doing right.
Will it be on the news?
No.
Those types of mishaps tend to be discussed behind closed doors, and are typically found beyond page two.
Impact splatter is bad for business.
Emergency crews clog roadways.
Tragedy is a distraction...
Best to treat the scene as another street performance gone bad, with a rather flamboyant artist having an unfortunate mishap with one of the props.
The article in the paper might say something about a freak accident, which was most likely the result of a window washer suffering catastrophic equipment failure…Or perhaps, a protest stunt by an Eco-terrorist, attempting to solve Global Warming by erasing their own carbon footprint.
How noble…
A selfless act of sacrifice, the print may read.
“One heck of a guy,” a likely comment from the Mayor.
3-1 your name would be spelled wrong in the report.
Perfect.
You almost smile at a mental image of the distant cousin-type awkward hug with the imported Italian Marble, at 181 mph…
Like a fucking champion.
Shattering that record…
Along with a majority of your 216 bones.
Finally, a winner.
+++
12:13
Should get a haircut, for aerodynamic purposes. Could probably use a shave, as well. And who knows, your luck is due to change any minute.
Maybe it will be a trainee. Maybe they do straight shaves. Any minute now, it’s time. Maybe the new guy forgets his insulin and his hands get shaky.
Who knows?
Maybe you put a thumbtack in your shoe, so when the razor glides over the artery you can provoke a frenzied enough spasm to break the skin and open the floodgates.
These things happen. The odds never lie.
We only lie to ourselves, when we suggest anything otherwise.
The power dynamics between famine and feast are measured by the secondhand.
The difference between regret and bragging rights is neither can exist without an audience. It’s not enough to do great things. Without witnesses, it never happened.
Without connections, we never happen.
You tell yourself to stay focused, maintain discipline. You convince yourself that a positive attitude will persevere over all.
Comfort yourself with a reminder that a clean streak tonight means breakfast on Friday, but without Pancakes. Spam in place of bacon gets you halfway to a Medium Slurpee tomorrow. Indispensable in the beginning, mostly to combat the triple-digit temps of your four-wheel drive convection oven.
Now a mobile Landfill, private residence, and prospective tomb. Your own shiny new mausoleum, complete with the sports package upgrade.
This is where you sleep if you ever slept.
This is where you’d dream if you ever did…
Calling nightmares dreams seems unfair.
Thats like calling blow-jobs uppercuts; Filet, hamburger meat.
Yourself… human.
Maybe it’s just you, but you find it hard to get comfortable when you are being cooked alive in your own bodily fluids.
Not for a lack of trying, but counting sheep is quite the task when you can’t even remember your name.
In an effort to combat your tender broil, you begin a flow chart for H20 regiments and restrictions. First by implementing a 15% reduction in all fluid intake. Careful only to imbibe enough for vital organs to maintain motor functions, but never enough to gain strength.
Not one to overindulge, as of late.
Practice moderation.
With too many unwanted benefits one stands to receive from proper hydration, one risks losing the numbing sensation brought about by the body, as it is dying.
Your nose has gone numb to the intolerable air. Polluted, you theorize, by your lack of skills in the Ole’ hygiene department.
Even in its foulness, the smell is oddly comforting. Even prisoners have toilets…
Another red light.
Kill the headlights.
Unbuckle as you accelerate.
Release the wheel.
Think of the day you met her.
Perfect.
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