Take the time to just linger in the tub and really rub your body in the ways that it needs to be rubbed or play in the bubbles of the bubble bath. Make yourself a Santa beard or try to build cone boobs on yourself and see how far you get before they cave in like a poorly built sandcastle or Madonna’s career.

The ‘60s are similar, in that living through them apparently gave people the right to do things that are now considered morally and legally objectionable. However, the people who lived through this era of decadent drug use and sexuality are now in positions of authority requiring them to condemn today’s youth for the very same activities.

Tonight I’ll go back to all my likes, like a sick dating site only I’m taking part in. It’s easy to obsess about strangers. You just pour nothingness outward, as if, through some accident in the universe, that very act could somehow fill you.

Presumably, when we place our ephemera into a time capsule, whether it’s a ziploc baggie in a shoebox in the backyard, or a municipal vault sealed on the occasion of some locally-relevant anniversary, we hope to impart an accurate snapshot to the future — a selective recreation of life as we know it.

Only a few (my roommate and his dog) will witness the ceremony of tossing my laptop battery into the creek, but, in the coming days and weeks, when it becomes apparent just how dead and gone I have become, all my internet family and friends will mourn over my deactivated accounts.

A year or two before it became a radio single, I had a scrambled, low-fi recording of “Hey There, Delilah” set to play whenever someone visited my MySpace profile. Of all of the songs in the world, I chose “Hey There, Delilah” as the song I wanted to be identified with. Living in a snap judgment, profile picture world, this seems like a bold – if not asinine – choice.