Now that the anniversary of his first 14 leap years has arrived, I debate, days and times a day, between the urge to take on the world and the depression of knowing that I turned my back on the ham a long time ago. With her little filly, my genetic history and the life expectancy statistics in hand, I can have how many four-year terms left?: five? six? Ten, God forbid? Let's go day by day, like Rambo.
Until next February 29. Maybe then I have made progress in the effort to learn to live for myself and not let life live me.