We can reconnect with friends of our youth only to realize we also haunt the alternate universe of those realities that might have been, had we spoken up, made different choices, and said I love you or I care. We can see in some of their lives the results of poor health, the lines, wrinkles, and pains of being beaten down by life. We constantly read the obituaries in our high school alumni periodicals, and cancel our membership to avoid the realization of our own mortality, the ticking down of our own antique clock, regardless of how many times we lie to ourselves about how young we feel; the lie that makes you heft a sack of concrete onto your shoulder and hump it over to the back of a truck, then repeat it a few times just so you can suffer from shoulder and back pain for the coming week. This is the haunting memory of being an idiot.
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