More frequently than not life mirrors a common experience at a convenience store. The particular experiences where you spend more money on junk food than on gas, you know. You purchase your road trip goodies and huff them down, and as you finish licking your fingers clean of sugar and chocolate you suddenly reflect that you’re not out of the parking lot yet. Soon you find that your two dollar pleasure cruises cost more than you realized after your ass is fat and your wallet it thin.
Convenience store living is a reality, and that reality is incarnated when you bend over and your stomach blocks you from tying your shoes. That’s a problem. Dieting won’t help and refusing to go to the convenience store doesn’t either because there are other stores to help you fulfill that said reality. The solution is a refusal of immediate pleasure in most all it’s forms. Sex being one exception. And contrary to schoolboy fantasy, even sex requires a considerable amount of investment. If John Doe can pay a dollar or two to satisfy his hunger you probably shouldn’t follow his example. This is to be read metaphorically in the broadest sense. What I’m talking about is a resistance to do anything without work and care and skill and thought.
He who suggests that you must live at the convenience store because “you only live once” has never lived. His life amounts to the sum total of convenience stores his taste buds have benefited from. He will be forgotten because he has lived at the convenience store, where everyone is busying themselves, searching out prepackaged foods to satisfy the insatiable desire that nags them as they awake and before they lay their heavy heads to rest. If you will live only once, I implore you to pass over living it at some shack where everything is handed to you premade, precooked, and stuffed with side effects that lead to an unhappy and bloated end.