CARPE THE FUCKING DIEM

This is not my motto. I am not a diem-carper. My response to a spanking new diem is to cower in a prone position, arms cradling my head, in preparation for the rain of fireballs that most diems send hurtling my way. If I'm lucky, I'll emerge from the diem with some singed clothing, a few minor dings and dents, and just enough energy to crawl into bed to gird myself for another damn diem barreling down the pike.

I realize this is not a healthy and progressive stance. I'd like to blame my doddering seniority, but the truth is I was like this in my twenties too. I cringed in the middle of the bike path as Jesse Scaccia types careened by me on their way to grabbing the diem and making it their bitch.

Do I have regrets? Of course I do, you twits! I'm fucking old! Sigh. When I was young, my role model was Gil Hodges, now it's J. Alfred Prufrock. "Prufrock--who?" I hear you young punks query. "Was he, like, in X-Men?" (That's one of the perks of seniority: I get to be crotchety. You kids get off my lawn!) Okay, gotta run. I see the heavens lighting up with fireballs already. It could just be angels farting, but I'm getting into the fetal position anyway.