He took what he wanted when he wanted, drank, smoked, yelled, lead cattle drives across the rugged desert, usurped stage coaches, slapped women, and sometimes he even starred in movies. Little boys wanted to be him when they grew up. He was the quintessential man who men wanted to be and women wanted to be with.
When the Duke died, doctors found a chunk of shit in his colon that was weighed more than a small child. Apparently it isn't easy being a hero.
Despite how good it feels, every drag of cigarette, every bottle of schnapps, every off the wall tantrum brings us closer to a mortician finding an ecosystem in our bowels. That's just from living well, too.
So I don't know what made me think of this. Talking about the Hepburn book maybe, she always makes me think of him (and vice versa), or something. It got me thinking to how much damage I'm doing to my body by stressing so much, and how much it really doesn't matter because everything worth doing in life is bad for you.
Not eating or sleeping right is giving me ulcers, but doing some of my favorite hobbies has broken about every bone imaginable.
Conclusion? I can't win!
I don't know where I was going with this. I can has cheezburger now.
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