I'm told there are other people like me, who tend to fill themselves up with their own possessions and accomplishments and desires and fantasies, leaving little room for others. It's hard to believe there are other "people like me" out there, and who gives a shit, anyway? <--which would be my normal reaction, given the definition above. The best thing that can happen to a person like me is for a large rock to fall from the sky and strike him or her directly on the nut, and knock him or her right out of himself or herself. It can be an event of love or loss, or it can be two large rocks, or three, I don't know. But if he or she is lucky, it (or they) will awaken him or her to what really matters: not possessions, not accomplishments, but people. It's so easy for a person like me to imagine that I'm standing on the riverbank, watching the flotsam and jetsam flow by, raising a supercilious eyebrow at the pathetic fools struggling in the current. What a gift it is to be jolted into the realization that a person like me is one of the pathetic fools, a nexus on the great doily of life, totally dependent on everyone else, and vitally important to everyone else. Intimately connected to people you grew up with, people you've never met, people you're in love with, people you miss terribly, people you don't particularly like. There's something to be really thankful for.
This has been a snot-free blog entry. My apologies to those who came here expecting the usual adolescent cynicism.