Passions and Punishments

I've been giving a lot of thought lately, given that this year I'll be rounding out the first 30 of my life, to what it is I'm really doing here.

I mean commanding a stud farm for unicorns while I jot down my thoughts isn't exactly the answer I gave to my teacher in fifth grade when she asked me what I wanted to do with my life.  In fact I think I told her I wanted to design the new White House, which is a weird thing too because if you think about it most people would have just said architect.  Apparently I was only invested in that one project.  The even weirder part is that since that time I have never had any desire whatsoever to become an architect.  The designing of buildings fit for human in-habitation is not something that should be put into my hands.  Except maybe tee-pees.  I could probably build a tee-pee.

I have passion for running the stud farm, I really do.  But there's a roadblock and I can't for the life of me figure out what that is.  I'm a lot like Derrick Rose I think, except he's black and incredibly gifted in the art of basketball.  Hear me out: Derrick has tremendous passion for basketball but it keeps betraying him and his body and he keeps sustaining horrific injuries.  I think that's incredibly unfair but I also understand that, 'hey that's life', and I hope he does too but I'm sure he sits at home late at night wondering what the Hell he's supposed to do.  What if he had passion for basketball and it didn't work out for one way or the other and he decided the best way to care for his family was to make pizzas?  Would he live a life content or would he just spend the rest of his days wondering what the Hell he's supposed to do?

Then I think to myself, "No, you have to run this stud farm.  Nobody else knows where the rakes get put back or where we keep the fresh hay and et cetera, et cetera, et cetera...  That's latin, doll.  Is that selfish or foolish?  I can't decide.  I guess I'm a lot like Kobe Bryant I think, except he's black and incredibly gifted in the art of basketball.  Hear me out:  Kobe has been to the mountaintop--several times.  To put it lightly he makes you question who the best Laker of all-time was.  His last few years haven't been very kind to him as his body is breaking down after all this time of wear and tear and he should probably be done but his mind won't let him.  He's going to come back for more punishment because 'he just can't go out this way.'  This happens from time to time to all great champions.  Your entire career has been a fairy tale so how could there not be a happy ending?  Do you think Kobe sits at home at night and asks himself what the Hell he's supposed to do?  If he hung it up right now and got some cushy TV analyst job do you think he would live a life content or would he just spend the rest of his days wondering what the Hell he's supposed to do?

If the Studly Pastures ended tomorrow I think my overall demeanor would be that I was generally pleased but felt like we could have done so much more.  And, hey, I've already told you that the two parameters for the ending of the SP are either the Miami Dolphins winning the Super Bowl or my untimely demise--whichever occurs first.  But the Zombie Apocalypse could happen and I'm pretty sure the internet would shut down and that would end the SP and if that happened, like I said, I would have mixed feelings...and hopefully a shotgun.  I guess I'm a lot like Peyton Manning, except he's under the Mendoza Line for Intelligence Quotient and extremely gifted at the art of football.  Peyton has no reason to come back next year--absolutely none--and it looks like he's coming back.  He's old, he's worn down, and his neck is fused together with technology they talked about in the original Terminator.  He's completely insane but he knows no other way.  Peyton Manning sits at home and says, 'Neck or football?  Ehhh...football."  Because what the Hell else would he do?!

I wonder, way back in the fifth grade that day, if I told the teacher I wanted to design the new White House because I panicked under the weight of the question.  Who the Hell at ten years old knows what they want to devote the rest of their life to?  The ironic part is that it's probably athletes and it's ironic because they never last.  They know from Day One what they want to be and they're the first ones to not be able to do that anymore or surrender their necks.

As for me, I like my neck.  I think it's pretty clear what my calling is.  It's still not too late to have Jimmy Carter teach me to build houses.

Float on, graceful swans.