I guess I could consider myself somemuch of a superstitious person; I avoid cracks in pavement, as I quite happen to like my mother. I spare a thought for passing ambulances, and I certainly don't flip a coin unless I intend to follow the choices determined as such.
I played it extremely safe the next day, but the novelty wore off by this morning, let alone six years and three hundred and sixty-four days later. It did however get me to thinking what the length of seven years really is. In terms of lifegoals, living and family, seven years is just, well, seven years - it's a bit of time, but not as great an expanse as a generation or a lifetime. But put it into the perspective of seven years worth of bad luck, and quite immediately I had a different appreciation for the given time period.
Seven years of prank calls, cold pizza deliveries and wondering if my house is burning down would be hard work. The stubbed toes every morning would be enough to warrant a mid-town rampage.*
So what makes seven years of success adequately uninspiring, yet the same amount of time given to red lights and long queues all but shreds any smidgen of complacency? Shouldn't I be just as diligent to make sure my next seven years are successful and not just accident prone? I'm fairly certain there's something in this as far as relationships between effort needed for different levels of success and perceived difficulty, blahdy-blah, but really there's only a few hours left to the weekend and having just finished Fable II I feel the need to do something destructive.
Don't get me wrong, it was a great game, and I'm sure I made the right choice at the end, but good narratives always leave me deflated by the time they're done.
In other news, we watched Wall-E for the first time today. Holy moly, what an accomplished movie.
"I don't want to survive, I want to live!"
I thought that was quite an impressive message to have iterated throughout a family movie.
-Anthony
[*] Wouldn't (fictional) Tokyo be pissed if Godzilla's only quibble was kicking his bedside table that morning? Forget the missiles and tanks, all he actually wanted was an icepack, poor bastard.
it just wasn't the choice i thought you'd make
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