Living a Better Life

I know of half a long life well-lived that seems the more so for being half
but a whole life well-lived might indeed be better, if a whole-life can be
considered to exclude being a child, when one cannot live life well for
fear of never learning. There's always the possibility of being killed by a bug.
Ssssh, watch out, one day it's the heat and the next it really is a killer
with a metal leg and a sad backstory. When I was a girl the door to the attic
locked from the outside but always unlocked by morning with the cat
looking hunched and fatter in the dark. Looking forward from there,
which is toward the present I could include some sex stuff,
which is also half of a life well-lived but could kill you. Matt has two
pairs of bellbottoms from different phases of life lived differently
because they are different sizes though neither is tight. In a way
having bellbottoms that are too big is both about sexuality and its opposite,
which does not exist. I believe that people around me pretend to
have opinions about penises that they do not actually have, though they
may, under some circumstances, have the penises themselves. This is
the result of a request to write romantically in the midst of writing
fearfully and about death, though the thought to write about death
has more to do with celebrating a long life. It must be such a relief to say
"Ah, I get it! That was it. That's what happened." I think I fear
death more because of how you can consume a whole series at once
now if you're a genius who uses the internet. I used to want only
to be a genius which keeps a person (me) from making plans.
Keeps, kept. I thinks keeps, let's stick with it. I'm not smart enough
to use the internet to fear death so much because of watching every
series I can at once but I am enough of a genius to know that
historical re-enactors make bad money. If, in keeping with the theme
of a life well-lived or half of it, I note the redundancy of "bad money"
I will be less radical than I think. What have I got to throw at the devil,
bellbottoms? Can tight pants kill you? When my grandfather died I was
wearing a periwinkle blue sweatsuit and, standing on a concrete slab, was small.