Forty-two

What a number. Wouldn't it be great if that magic number really did answer all? Life would be so much simpler if you could throw a window open and holler the number at the top of your lungs and figure out the solutions to life's mysteries.

When is it really time to let go of something, someone, important? Isn't that a doozy of a question. When you step back and look at things, when you realize that hanging on may be causing more harm than good, more pain than elation; is that when you let go? Is that when you finally say it's time? Or do you fight on, trying to make things better, knowing full well that that may just make things worse; drag out the hurt, kill the good. When two people love each other, are they truly supposed to let go?

I don't know. Maybe my buddies Jack and Stoli can shed some light. Alternatively, they'll nurse me into an anesthetic stupor, take me to a place where none of this truly matters, at least for a few hours.

It's occurred to me that my current playlist probably isn't helping my mood.