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Bloganuary ‘23, Day 22: Lost Continent

A box of Millennios

We had a HEATER REPAIRMAN come today, who dishonored our home by lying and saying he was born in 1998; this is not possible, because in 1998 I was playing Ocarina Of Time and Pokémon, and trying to get my parents to tell me what the hell Clinton did because my 4th grade teacher–Mrs. Crossman, A Harridan–wouldn’t, and if he was born that year and is now much taller than I am and going to a baseball game later like a grownup, it means that I am old. He asked if I played Magic The Gathering and I replied “Eh, not since–*quick math*–you were, oh god, four years old.”
It’s just the same at work; everybody’s computers bamboozle them, I make a joke on the main chat about it being Y2K finally making its move and it gets nothing, the realization coming all too late that they weren’t born yet when I was munching on my bowl of Millenios and eyeing the Mr. Coffee distrustfully as the clock struck 2000.
It gets worse every year; patients saying they were born in 2002? Shut up you actual sonogram, go grab a Capri Sun and put a grown-up on the phone, we’ve got very recent episodes of Frasier to discuss. Has his feued with Cam Winston finally reached its terrible climax?!

Nahhhh jkjk, it’s all good, the young deserve to inherit the earth; I just wish I could leave it to them in better shape. It is just that I am old now, and that is fine and good, it is the natural order of things.

January 22nd:
What Was Your Dream Job As A Child?

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When I was but a WEE BITTY BAGELER who had never yelled on the internet EVEN ONCE because we didn’t have a computer yet, I wanted with all my tiny heart to be a marine biologist, which at the time I thought meant getting in one of those James Cameron Titanic-submarines to TAKE TO THE SEAS and find WEIRD MONSTERS and ANCIENT RUINS and LEAP DAY WILLIAM sleeping in the heart of the Marianas Trench. Turns out that marine biology is mainly about science (which is still cool) and less about exploring the mysterious depths in search of terrible secrets and lost aquatic civilizations and similar; that’s really more in the job description of a Captain Nemo who multiclassed into Indiana Jones with more than a dash of Jonas Taylor because my parents really didn’t watch what I was obsessively re-reading.

The life I’ve led has not made of me an explorer, and I’m largely fine with that; there’s not much left to explore, anyway, to my lasting lament. But my heart still sways with the tides when I think of exploring below the surface, past the borders of the Aphotic Zone, like outer space, but with no stars, and filled with endless life, things we’ve never seen, never imagined, just waiting to be found.

Why is it so soft when the cannons unload on the others?
Why are we so loud when we say it won’t happen to us?

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