Life Is Strange
Life is a strange thing because imagine, if you will, that you did a thing as though you felt you were born to it. Like, literally born to it. As though you began it when you were in the womb, and you inherited a family tradition of working on it, and you’d been doing this sort of thing since for as long as you can remember.
Imagine that this was you, that you’d been doing, I don’t know…farming. Corn threshing, for as long as you can think of. That it’s been the foundational relationship between you and your parents for the breadth of your life, that it’s actually the metaphor through which you comprehend the world.
And then one day you meet someone else who does that same sort of work, and she says to you, “Oh, do you like corn threshing?”
And you realize that you hardly ever do it these days, because basically folks just don’t figure you’re that good at it. It’s a reasonable conclusion for her to draw, and a reasonable sort of thing to make you wonder.
Then imagine that you’ve had too much to drink, and there’s nothing left for you but self pity.
THAT IS NOT HOW I FEEL RIGHT NOW.