Home is where the best day of your life is – case solved


I just wrote that headline, up there, at the head of this blog, that’s just a line of words, I wonder if that’s where that word comes from? Like it’s literal. I always thought it was because it came from someone’s head. Unlike most of the other lines that make up most newspaper columns, which come mostly from the moldy donut in the break room that has been typing furiously for 82 years, and ain’t no one is willing to even ask questions about it. ‘It’s doing the job, we ain’t messing with that’ is a very profound quote that I think would be the type of thing that the head editor of the newspaper where the donut writes would say. Although no one knows for sure, because no one bothered to write down the stuff he said.

Where was I? Oh yes, I wrote the headline for today’s blog without really thinking about what, if anything, it meant. The point is that this evening I went and saw a movie in the cinema where I used to see movies when I was at University. It was a bit of a homecoming, you might say. It put me in a reflective, nostalgic, and warm place. Which is weird because my university days were bleak, forgetful and cold.

Truth be told I chose not to dig deep into those wistful feelings this evening, I chose to instead just feel them, and not try to get any meaning or answers from them. This is rare for me; I normally overthink the fuck out of absolutely everything. I am currently even overthinking how to best express the sentiment that I way overthink, even though I know it’s something I have stated clearly in this very paragraph, and doesn’t need anymore stating, especially seeing as I genuinely don’t want to write about my overthinking issues, especially as one of the things about today that made it the best day of my life was the very absence of this overthinking in this one particular scenario. I just felt the feelings. I liked feeling them. Case solved. Or done. Or it wasn’t really a case, just, you know – that was it, because that was all it needed to be.

So I wrote tonight’s headline just from thinking ‘I might put the word “home” in there somewhere and see if it leads me anywhere’. Then without thinking anymore found myself typing ‘home is where the best day of your life is’ and then I stopped briefly. ‘Man, I could seriously unpack a line like that, the fact that it came out of my brain tonight is probably some sign that I need to do some serious thinking about where I am, where home is to me, what I want to do with the rest of my life, the immediate future, the rest of the evening, what do I want to do on Tuesday February 12th 2039, do I want to get online and look up whether or not February 12th 2039 is actually going to happen on a Tuesday, if it is and I just picked that date at random does that mean anything, what if that’s the day I end up dying and by some fluke these blogs are found and people start to look at as some sort of Nostradamus, only way more talented, and probably better looking, although I am basing that on likely grooming, showering and fashion trends of our respective times rather than any genuine thoughts that I am better looking than him, or anyone for that matter, and why do I say things like that, is it so bad to even think for a moment that I may be better looking than another human being, no one is going to judge me because of that, unless they do, and then that’s going to make me feel like shit isn’t it, unless they judge me favorably because of it, holy fuck I think out of six hundred million times I have felt like I am going to get judged because of something this, right now, is the first time it’s occurred to me that you can be judged favorably, wow, what does that mean?’

But then before I had the chance to write about what that headline may or may not mean, I got lost of a tangent or two, and remembered how nice it was to feel something nice and then not overthink it. So I choose not to think about what that headline means, or how it could be broken down and analyzed. I choose to feel warmth.


Ps. Some people say that newspapers are not written by a moldy donut at all and think anyone who thinks they are is nothing short of a moron, in fact you’ll often even hear them screaming out at night ‘it’s not a moldy donut that writes papers you fucking idiot, it’s a moldy bagel!’ But then who really can tell after all these many years of mold build up. It’s what’s in the middle of the mold that really identifies and represents the truth of what a person, or bakery item, you are. Oh fuck, if I was in the mood, I could totally overanalyze that.  

Comments