How to ‘live everyday as if it’s your last’

It is often advised that you should ‘live everyday as if it’s your last’. For those of you who don’t think this is a stupid idea you may be thinking, ‘But how?’ Here’s how:

It all depends on the way you’re going to wind up spending your last day.  Once you’ve found that out, the rest of your life is easy: just repeat!

Therefore we’ve compiled a comprehensive list of the different ways you might spend your last day according to the manner of your demise. Simply pick the fate that fits your personality best.

Death by Freefalling Piano.

You spend your final day oblivious of your own mortality, enjoying the fruits of life in the company of your family, friends and a few intrusive colleagues who really can’t take a hint.

Likely personality traits: Happy, Smug, Irresponsible.

Death by Uncovered Manhole Plunge

On your day of reckoning you constantly crane your neck up at the sky due to the recent passing away of your long term friend by way of a sleek Steinway & Sons.

Likely personality traits: Worried, Intrusive, Poor At Reading Signals, You’re One Of The Colleagues Mentioned Above, It Was Only Meant To Be A Small BBQ.

Death by Quick Sand

You knew exactly what you were getting in for when you became a semi-professional adventurer. You’ll be spending your final hours flailing your machete in a haphazard manner. Fun yes, but ultimately fatal as you’ll sever the trusty vines that would have acted as your escape route. Bad luck!

Likely personality traits: Bold, Unemployable.

Death at the Fortune Teller’s

Being a pathetic person you’ll seek prophetic advice from a deceitful con merchant. On being told by such a person that you’re going to die one day, you rush out in a panic and drop your Molotov bomb everywhere. The fortune teller’s tent catches fire, killing you both. You may have tragically fulfilled your own prophecy but you’ve also shown the mystic up as a phoney, who surely should have predicted the Molotov bomb might have gone awry. That’s just basic health and safety.

Likely personality traits: Fickle, Armed.

CONCLUSION

That’s it guys! Obviously we can’t account for all end game scenarios but we’ve covered the main ones and it’s likely you’re in denial about being an injudicious discerner of which vines to cut and which to leave.

So get to it, get living! Dedicate each and every day to either ‘enjoying your life’, looking up a lot, wielding a blade, or seeking out useless if not detrimental predictions about how your life will pan out.

Drug Days

It was the summer of 2008. At least I think it was. I can’t be exactly sure because I was so fucked on drugs at the time.

When you’re on drugs you get pretty slack at time keeping and your general recall goes to shit. Don’t let anybody tell you that doing drugs on a regular basis has no bad consequences because it does.

Where to start?

I was in a crew of about eight genuinely top, top lads. We all hung out at the local swimming baths, The Europa Pools. Naturally, none of us could swim. But we didn’t go to swim (or to learn how to swim). We went to do drugs.

We had been well acquainted with the likes of MDMA and E for a while.  We’d done smack a few times too.  Right in the shallow end. One time we timed it just right and the hit arrived just as the wave machine got going. Honestly though, it was all very pedestrian in comparison to HARM.

Let me try and explain to you what it’s like to take a ride on a HARM tiger:

  • Really powerful strobe lights seem like regular lights.
  • Regular lights seem dimmer than they actually are.
  • You can’t help but frequently announce, ‘I’m on HARM! I’m on HARM!’
  • You have an out of body experience that enables you to feel and know the celestial deity that created all life.
  • You feel like you need a wee even though you don’t.
  • Often you walk on your tip toes (that’s how the police know you’re high).

Pretty fucking out there, right? Yeah, well, it wasn’t all good.

When on HARM it is literally impossible not to write a stellar guitar riff coupled with a transcendental yet meaningful lyric. So annoying.  I honestly tried not to but every time I came to, there it was, perched on the end of my nose: a lovely vinyl recording of my chemically induced creativity.

Chucked all the records away mind you. I’m many things but an arts doper is not one of those many things. In years to come we’ll realise that Dylan, the Beatles etc are despicable cheats.

HARM ended up ruining all our lives. Reggie O.D.ed on it. I found his body in his bedroom buried beneath a massive stack of vinyls he’d produced himself the night before. They were all 12” so he had no chance. Too much filler really can be a killer.

My poor recollection for dates ruined my dream of ever becoming a highflying businesswoman’s PA.  That and inequality at the work place; there’s still a very long way to go.

I’ve moved on since my HARM days and am now a full time lifeguard.  Pretty good at my job if I do say so myself in this exclusively first person narrative. Then again, I admit that if I ever see someone having a cheeky shave at the poolside, dabbing on some HARM, I do turn a blind eye. 

Casanova’s Best Friend

Went to a birthday bash with Casanova the other day. He wasn’t really invited. He came as my guest. But does that stop him? No.

Standing before a room of strangers with a favourable gender ratio, Casanova’s eyes quickly shifted from beady to ‘Come hither, right now.’

“Please not tonight,” I pleaded, “Have some dip.”

His insatiable desire for cupping the breasts of ladies is matched only by his love of eating hummus. He once attempted to do both at once but found the whole experience desperately dissatisfying.

Two vivacious young maidens approached us from across the drawing room. They shimmered as they neared us, clad in their sumptuous dresses. The one that talks first in those situations introduced herself as Rosa and her quiet companion as Elena. Ah yes, Italian ladies with names ending in an ‘A.’

Rosa then asked, “What do you do?” in that really uppity manner that implies we’re all defined by our chosen occupation.

“My father owns orchards” I said. Do you really think I want to stand on apples all my life? If so, you’re dead wrong. I don’t.

Casanova played coy. The man is typecast. In his school’s Nativity, he played coy. Never expect a straight answer from him.

“Let’s just say, I have to make sure everything’s exactly where it should be.”

As he actually makes his mouth say those words in that order, he slowly looked both of them up and down. He’s checking they’re both fully limbed ‘cause he’s shallow like that.

Elena, the one who hadn’t spoken up to now then goes: ‘So, you must be very good with your hands.’

Wow. You can’t say hello but you can say that? Pretty big logic jump there too.

“Yes, I’m expert. But don’t be fooled. My vocation demands intellectual rigour.”

They both gush, thumbing through the 7 or 8 jobs they’ve committed to memory. Surprise, surprise they can’t work out what he does for a living.

“We just don’t know, Mr. Casanova.”

My bet is that these two have never won a game of Pictionary in their life. Isn’t a lack of curiosity one of the saddest things to behold?

My mind, having rendered this pair as utterly inane, began to wander onto other things. I was slipping into autopilot just as easily as Casa slips out of a stranger’s chamber come the break of dawn. Strangely for a Lothario figure he can’t stand somebody else making him breakfast. Even if it’s something he likes they never do it right, he regularly tells me.

Blurring out their prattle as best as I could, I noticed that Elena and Rosa’s dresses were less frilly than the shirts Casanova and I were adorning. I’ll be honest; I cannot wait for this trend to be over. Forever getting my sleeve caught on door handles. How many more must die before society acknowledges that frills and a community so dependent upon candlelight is a bad combination?

I reluctantly become conscious of the situation once more.

Casanova: “I must admit, what I do- it remains a mystery even to me, my ladies,” Coy. “All I know is, I’m rather good at it.”

“He’s a librarian,” I stormed off towards the bread sticks, “He’s a fucking librarian.”

In so many ways.