Immortality

Some days — depressing days — I worry that life is meaningless. I mean, we're put on this planet, live for a few years — an instant in the entire span of the universe — and then we die. Our families die, our friends die, and soon enough, our ashes are swept into the dustbin of history. I wonder, what will my contribution be, how will I make my mark? Will the world be any different for my having been a part of it?

Well, my friends, I am proud to say that I've finally drawn my name in the wet cement of creation. If you'd like to check out my lasting effect, you can visit it at the Barnes and Noble on Sixth Avenue between 21st and 22nd Streets. One day, I was in B&N with my laptop plugged into a socket, and the nefarious B&N heavies freaked at this unauthorized use of their electricity. Security kicked me out. (Okay, that part's not true. The security guard told me, "You can't have that plugged in here," to which my witty comeback was, "But... but I've only got it plugged in." Then I hung my head in shame and slumped out, but not before re-shelving whatever books I could get my hands on in the wrong departments.) I went back to the offending B&N today to pee on their bathroom walls — er, I mean, use their bathroom — and I saw what yours truly set in motion taped right above the electrical outlet in the Eastern religions section: a "for employee use only" note.

Actually, three strips of tape — that's how seriously these dickholes take their electricity.

Speaking of which, what the hell do the employees need to plug in there? Are sales associates blow-drying their hair in the Eastern religion section after their shifts? God, Barnes and Noble sucks....