Man . . . I was just reading about Arthur Schopenhauer and uh . . . he lived in Berlin and was more or less a lifelong failure and bachelor, and who was at odds with his mother, and wrote his sister letters, and lived alone with his animals while writing increasingly bizarre books that nobody cared about. He also had premonitions in his dreams! And according to this thing I’m reading which is definitely not Wikipedia, he attributed his good health in old age to going on walks no matter what the weather was. Hey, that’s me! But also: uh oh! Cuz, as cool as some of his stuff was, you definitely don’t wanna be this guy. I know what I am, though. I reckon at a certain point you just got to make terms with the fact that you’re a raving lunatic whose worldview is founded upon pessimism and an eternal outrage at the unconquerable sadnesses of being a human. Oh well!!!