WARNING: honesty may contain negativity

The worst part about a good thing is that it will eventually end. We've all heard the saying about the glass. Either it's half-full, or it's half-empty. But really, no one is going to just sit and stare at a glass that's half-full anyways. They're going to do what they do with glasses, and that's drink from them. Eventually, the glass will become empty after so many sips. Of course, you could just look at the glass, maintaining it's half-fullness in all of it's half-full glory, and wait for the contents of the glass to either sour, ferment, or go flat, and then throw it all out anyway – but that would be far more wasteful and disheartening than an empty glass to begin with.

We'd be foolish to consider every positive scenario as a glass half-full, because everyone knows that a glass, no mater the volume of its contents, will eventually drain to nothing, evaporate into thin air, or rot. That's the nature of the glass, and the contents. Either we drink it, or we throw it away – nothing can stay "half-full" forever.

Such a stupid saying. And an even sillier concept.

I've had trouble accepting this throughout my life. I've been called pessimistic when challenging permanence. But, seriously, what is permanent? A physical scar? An emotional scar? A tattoo? Maybe I should get the image of a half-full glass tattooed to my ass to remind me, every time I get naked in front of a mirror, that I'm a cynical, naked, 20-something. Then maybe I'll understand, but not likely.

It's a skill to be able to live in the moment. To be able to take time and smell the flowers, and just for a second stop focusing on the fact that they were sent from a boyfriend exactly 2,229 kilometres away - someone that I can't ever see, or touch, or hear unless filtered through phone lines and long-distance charges.

My mother and sister came to visit for the weekend. Despite the dinners, and the movies, and the shopping, there is always this little voice in the background saying "only 4 more days…only 3 more days…only 2 more days." Of course, that voice, in this case, really did belong to my 14 year old sister who, despite the fun we were having, could not wait to get back home (to find out who-held-hands-with-whom while she was away). But, even if she wasn't here to mark the days as they passed, my own reasoning would be doing the same, focusing on how much time had gone, rather than how much time was left.

Now, they've left, too. I walked them to their cab just about an hour ago. I promised my mother, who could see the dark cloud rolling in, that I would go buy milk and get busy with my list of things to do. But I haven’t. My condo is quiet. Like, dead quiet. Pin-drop quiet. The bed is unmade, and the list of things that need to be done is by my kitchen sink. There is laundry to do, groceries to buy, one essay, two articles, and a midterm on Monday – but all I really want to do right now is pour myself a glass of wine and sulk. A full glass.