It could be worse. It could be raining.
It could be worse. It could be a world without
- Mel Brooks
- Young Frankenstein
- Other hilarious movies
- People who care
- Friends who send you poems like this:
“Good Bones,” by Maggie Smith
Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.
- Sons who want to FaceTime with their mothers
- Fire hydrants
- My readers, who I hope will leave a comment about this post (which could be worse)
- Gratitude, which I’m expressing for all who helped me create today’s blog and for you– of course! — no matter what you think could be worse, here and now.