Interesting thoughts and Poem

I started thinking the other day about some things. If you live in a house by yourself, you can do a lot of things that you couldn't do before. I started asking myself questions that I never really thought about. Questions like, "Do I have to close the door when I use the bathroom?" or things like, "Can I put up my life-size cut out of Mister T in my living room?" But if you are also living in your house, you have no one to blame. You can't be like, "Why are all these dishes in the sink?" or "Wow, this place is a mess!" or "Are you going to take out the garbage?" I say those out loud sometimes, but the truth of the matter is it's all me, and that really stinks.

Apparently, there's also a law in Murfreesboro that you need to keep your lawn cut. You want to know what's funny? They give you a warning if you're grass exceeds 12 inches and they gave me a warning because of my back yard...you do the math! I've been cutting grass for the past three days now. It's an extreme work out. I have one of those push mowers. When I say push mowers, I mean that the lawn mower is powered by strength and that it has those little blades that spin on the bottom. It's like one of those lawn mowers people used in the 1800s. It is helping to produce some of my gigantic manly muscles, so I guess I'm kinda happy. Although it shouldn't take several hours to cut my lawn...it's just sad. That's why we just got a new mower!

To be serious for a moment, my grandfather passed away a week from last Monday. I was trying to debate whether I wanted to dedicate a whole post to that. Instead, I decided that I would quote a poem. Here is the poem, and I hope that you all have a great day.

Death Be Not Proud

by John Donne
(1572-1631)

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DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.