MISC

I watched “Jumper” all over again. I watched the last part yesterday on TV. I couldn’t get it out of my head. I’ve let my freak flag fly. Actually, flying could metaphorically comes a poor second to “jumping.” I don’t wanna fly no more. No catapult, no gliding, no paragliding, not even hang gliding. I just wanna “jump.”

If there was life after death, I wouldn’t wanna be a bird no more. I would only wanna be a “jumper” so that I could say like David Rice, “Let me tell you about my day so far. Coffee in Paris, surfed the Maldives, took a little nap on Kilimanjaro. Oh, yeah, I got digits from this Polish chick in Rio. And then I jumped back for the final quarter of the NBA finals–courtside of course. And all that was before lunch. I could go on, but all I’m saying is, I’m standing on top of the world.”
I decided to take the red pill. Can somebody come show me how deep the rabbit hole goes, NOW?

My first jump would be to Danba. It would be great sitting waiting watching the sun setting in a watchtower. Arghhhhhhhhh, all the imagination about where I would go if I could teleport myself made the day more damning than ever.