Recycling and speed limits are bullshit. 

They're like someone who quits smoking on his deathbed

 

Generations have been working in jobs they hate, 

just so they can buy what they don't really need

 

This is your life, and it's ending one minute at a time 

 

the first step to eternal life is you have to die

 

Which is worse: 

Hell or nothing?

 

For thousands of years, human beings had screwed up and trashed and crapped on this planet, and now history expected me to clean up after everyone. 

I have to wash out and flatten my soup cans. 

And account for every drop of used motor oil. 

And I have to foot the bill for nuclear waste and buried gasoline tanks and landfilled toxic sludge dumped a generation before I was born

 

If you died right now, how would you feel about your life?

 

You have to give up! 

You have to realize that someday you will die,

Until you know that, you are useless!

 

the condom is the glass slipper of our generation. 

You slip it on when you meet a stranger. 

You dance all night, 

then you throw it away

 

Without pain, without sacrifice we would have nothing. 

Like the first monkey shot into space

 

A person had to work hard for it, 

but a minute of perfection was worth the effort. 

A moment was the most you could ever expect from perfection

 

everything you ever love will reject you or die. 

Everything you ever create will be thrown away.

 Everything you're proud of will end up as trash

 

Worker bees can leave.

Even drones can fly away.

The Queen is their slave

 

Sticking feathers up your butt does not make you a chicken!

 

If you could be either God’s worst enemy or nothing, 

which would you choose?

 

On a long enough time line, 

the survival rate for everyone drops to zero

 

We are not special. 

We are not crap or trash, either. 

We just are. 

We just are, and what happens just happens

 

Advertising has us chasing cars and clothes, 

working jobs we hate 

so we can buy shit we don't need

 

Everyone smiles with that invisible gun to their head

 

The lower you fall, the higher you'll fly

 

If I could wake up in a different place, 

at a different time, 

could I wake up as a different person?

 

 I see all this potential and I see squandering. 

an entire generation pumping gas, waiting tables, slaves with white collars, 

advertising has us chasing cars and clothes, working jobs we hate so we can buy shit we don't need. 

We're the middle children of the history  

no purpose or place, 

we have no Great war,

 no Great depression,

 our great war is a spiritual war,

 our great depression is our lives

 

 if people thought you were dying, they gave you their full attention. 

If this might be the last time they saw you, they really saw you.

 Everything else about their checkbook balance and radio songs and messy hair went out the window. 

You had their full attention. 

People listened instead of just waiting for their turn to speak. 

And when they spoke, they weren't just telling you a story. 

When the two of you talked, you were building something,

 and afterward you were both different than before.

 

everything you can ever accomplish 

will end up as trash

 

who is he that can offend the spirit? 

Shall the nightingale offend the stillness of the night, 

or the firefly the stars?

 

A flower is not better when it blooms than when it is merely a bud; 

at each stage it is the same thing 

— a flower in the process of expressing its potential

Happy Star Wars Day

 

May The Fourth Be With You 

 

Waiters will always pee in soup, 

people will always fall in love

 

What you have to understand, is your father was your model for God.

If you're male and you're Christian and living in America, your father is your model for God. 

And if you never know your father, if your father bails out or dies or is never at home, what do you believe about God?

What you end up doing is you spend your life searching for a father and God.

What you have to consider is the possibility that God doesn't like you. 

Could be, God hates us. 

This is not the worst thing that can happen

 

The amazing miracle of death, 

when one second you're walking and talking,

 and the next second you're an object

 

 

getting God's attention for being bad was better than getting no attention at all. 

Maybe God's hate is better than His indifference.

If you could be either God's worst enemy or nothing, which would you choose?

We are God's middle children,  with no special place in history and no special attention.

Unless we get God's attention, we have no hope of damnation or redemption.

Which is worse, hell or nothing?

Only if we're caught and punished can we be saved.

 

Only in death will we have our own names since only in death are we no longer part of the effort.

 In death we become heroes

 

Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, 

but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming 

"Wow! What a Ride!

 

Burn the Louvre, and wipe your ass with the Mona Lisa. 

This way at least, God would know our names

 

Our culture has made us all the same. 

No one is truly white or black or rich, anymore. 

We all want the same.

 Individually, we are nothing

 

The more things you own, the more they own you

 

It's only after you lose everything 

that you're free to do anything

 

The things you own end up owning you. 

It's only after you lose everything that you're free to do anything

 You buy furniture. 

You tell yourself, this is the last sofa I will ever need in my life.

 Buy the sofa, then for a couple years you're satisfied that no matter what goes wrong, at least you've got your sofa issue handled. 

Then the right set of dishes. 

Then the perfect bed. 

The drapes. 

The rug. 

Then you're trapped in your lovely nest, 

and the things you used to own,

 now they own you

 

The things you used to own, 

now they own you

 

You know how they say you only hurt the ones you love? 

Well, it works both ways

 

You are not special. 

You're not a beautiful and unique snowflake. 

You're the same decaying organic matter as everything else. 

We're all part of the same compost heap.

 We're all singing, all dancing crap of the world

 

You are not your job, 

you're not how much money you have in the bank. 

You are not the car you drive.

 You're not the contents of your wallet. 

You are not your fucking khakis. 

You are all singing, all dancing crap of the world

 

This is your life and its ending one moment at a time

 

The perfume, 

all those dead whales in the cuts in her hands, 

it stings

 

It's only after we've lost everything 

that we're free to do anything

 

The brooks flow to their lover, the sea, 

and the flowers smile at the object of their passion, the light. 

The mist rolls down to its beloved, the valley. 

 

Man will be on the path to perfection 

when he feels that he is one with space that knows no bounds and with the ocean that has no shores; 

when he becomes that undying fire, 

that ever-gleaming light,

 that still air or that violent storm,

 those clouds charged with lightning, thunder and rain,

 those rivers merry or sad,

 those trees in bloom or shedding their leaves,

 those lands that rise up into mountains or slope down into valleys, 

those fields under seed or lying fallow.

 

Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night

By Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,   

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 

• In any year, 
• no month ever begins or ends on the same day of the week as May does
• 
  

eg 1 May Friday - no other month will start on a Friday 

Jan 1 Thursday 

Feb 1 Sunday 

March 1 Sunday 

April 1 Wed 

June 1 Mon 

July 1 Wed 

Aug 1 Sat 

Sep 1 Tuesday 

Oct 1 Thursday 

Nov 1 Sunday 

Dec 1 Tuesday 

• 
  

May

 

May

 May 

Hark! The sea-faring wild-fowl loud proclaim 
My coming, and the swarming of the bees.
 
These are my heralds, and behold! my name 
Is written in blossoms on the hawthorn-trees.
 
I tell the mariner when to sail the seas; 
I waft o'er all the land from far away 
The breath and bloom of the Hesperides, 
My birthplace.
 I am Maia.
 I am May.

May

 

Lots of people go mad in January. 

Not as many as in May, of course.

May

 

The month of May is pure magic. While April is a mix of cold, dreary days and a few sunny ones here and there, May serves up plenty of truly perfect days, full of sunshine and blooming flowers. 

May is a month of rebirth, inspiration and excitement as we close out the first two quarters of the year and look forward to a long, relaxing summer.

May, more than any other month of the year, wants us to feel most alive.

The world's favorite season is the spring. All things seem possible in May

May is the month of promise and the sweet beginnings of summer.

The month of May is the gateway to summer

May is the month of beauty, where we can appreciate the world around us

May is a bridge between winter and summer.

May, the month of sunshine, blooming flowers, and endless possibilities.

O, the month of May, the merry month of May. So frolic, so gay, and so green, so green, so green!

May is the month of expectation, the month of wishes, the month of hope

Among the changing months, May stands confest The sweetest, and in fairest colors dressed.

May

By the meteorological calendar, spring will always start on 1 March; ending on 31 May.

“We mourn the blossoms of May because they are to whither;

 but we know that May is one day to have its revenge upon November, by the revolution of that solemn circle which never stops 

— which teaches us in our height of hope, ever to be sober, and in our depth of desolation, never to despair.”