I had someone footprint to me the other day from a Google search and so I backtracked the search.
Look what you've done, you cursed Xanga.  I'm # 1.   I'm top-ranked in the world for the famous last words of the Wicked Witch of the West.  Who would have ever thought a good little blog like Xanga could destroy my beautiful... obscurity.  Oh, what an Internet!  What an Internet!

But 'notforprophet' isn't melting.  Of all those who made a really Big Bang as #1 Featured Content in the very earliest days of Xanga, I dare say that I'm the only one left.  Bianca was a farce and was busted.  Jewel  got sick and is gone.  James is gone into other ethereal space. VeryModern is no longer posting there though she does leave comments from time to time.  So, by my reckoning, that pretty much leaves me as Xanga's once-most-popular yet still actively extant artifact.  I am the (last remaining active) Xanga Patriarch in an age when patriarchs are routinely discarded.  ha!  

Now, I had a bright idea a few moments ago.  I thought I'd insure my everlasting presence here by utilizing Xanga's "future post" feature to cast my posts decades "into the future." Those posts would then arrive in Xanga in a "real time" when I would no longer be physically on this earth but little bloggers, who are not even yet physically in the womb, might rally to read the future revealed words of the revered Now Passed Patriarch.   But, dammit, Xanga is only allowing us to futurize ourselves two years forward.

I might still be alive in two years.  I don't want to say anything futurized now that I might regret, because still alive, then.   Oh well.  I guess I'll just stay here.  'Here' being no more than an inflected date/time element in the code of a post that stipulates when these words *poof* blogamagically appear.  So much for past and future Xanga grandeur.

There is no security in energy.  There is only adventure.  Will I have the energy to finish the marathon or not?  And, if I finish, will I drop dead immediately after fulfilling my energy vision?  There's no marathon insurance for falling short.  Finish or die!  Or finish and die.  That's the adventure! 

We cannot secure future energy needs with future yet-to-be-invented technology.  We can only strive to be and burn and stay one-step ahead of  cosmic consumptive entropy.    The question should not be "How high will the price of gasoline rise?" but "Do you have enough fire in your belly to watch the sun rise tomorrow?"

I had a spontaneous kung-fu moment last evening.  And it was extreme enough to throw my back back into convulsion.  As a result, I now have a gelatinous-like balloon on my lower back under my skin (An implant?!  No, there is no nipple on my back.)   And I don't have a pair of pants or shorts large enough to cover and zip myself up.  The only item I can find now to wear without restriction is a pair of pajamas.  I'm glad that our culture tolerates public pajama wearing because that's how I'll likely debut today.

It's damn good to be alive.  Pushing through the post-accident pain is another battle that I'm fated to win.

My right ribs and the three layered ripples of my intercostal muscles on that side are harboring an ocean of bruised blood that is making coughing and laughing and torso-shifting major tactical undertakings:  Cough slowly while supporting my rib cage with my cupped hands.  And only cough once and not deeply.  Laugh only if it's spontaneous and uncontrollable.  And then drag the laugh out into a low, slow howl that resembles Lurch's (Addams family) utterance of grave foreboding.  Bootstrap into every movement.  Pull myself up, no sudden movements, no kung fu moments.

I was supposed to take the whole week off work to recuperate but
decided yesterday to quit the pain meds and head into the office. 
Well, I made it through the day without the percocets but it was
rough.   There are going to be some more rough days ahead.  Some more it's-damn-good-to-be-alive days ahead.    I intend to transcend this setback and become unhindered.  Now is my launchpoint into greater awareness.

I almost left the planet yesterday evening.  Accidentally.  What I thought of, in the perilous moment, as
possibly my last breath was just one long  intermission of
non-aspiration.  I stayed up
all night, after discharge from the emergency room, in amazed wonderment at still being here. Yesterday was a good day to die but the Earth didn't suck at me hard enough for long enough. 

I'll be off of work for at least the rest of the week.  Going to take it slow, really slow, for a while.

Addendum:  Indeed, I am sometimes too obscure.  What happened is that I fell off the top of a ladder at roof level and backwards and hit the deck square with my back.  Got some fractures here and there but all stayed clear of the spinal column.  As I fell, I had enough awareness to keep my head up and so that did not become a point of impact.  I didn't pass out but couldn't breathe for about half a minute.  Feeling like a deer that gets shot in the heart, I finally tore myself up off the deck and jolted back into the wilderness of life, death.

Three things conspired to create the accident, all of which I should avoided, any one of which, if avoided, would have prevented my mishap.  1) The ladder was not solidly footed but was placed on shiftable material; 2) The ladder was placed against a gutter but not anchored there as it should have been with a bungee cord wrapped around a gutter nail; 3) The ladder rose just above the gutter instead of assuring at least three feet of jutting above it.  So as I began my descent from the roof backwards, the material shifted, the ladder slid since it was unanchored above, and it fell off the gutter and into a window in that its jutting was so slight as to not effectively counter some slippage.  Moreover, as I began my down descent, I didn't have any ladder juttage to grip hands onto but simply started down by my legs alone.  The ladder as it slipped did so with a snapping jolt. And since I didn't have any handhold on it, I found myself thrown off backwards as one might upon a bucking bronco if you lose hold of the reins.  I was, effectively, bucked off. 

Morphine, CT Scans and hours later, I was told of the fractures but no organ damage.  I declined to stay in the hospital to manage the pain but instead slithered out of the hospital, into my vehicle, and to the nearest bar.  No - I actually went home.  I didn't have any money with me to buy drinks at the bar.

"A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a
hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a
wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act
alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer,
cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specialization is for
insects."   - Robert Heinlein

Of all the above, the one that appeals to me most just now is making love.  Oh, that wasn't in the list?   Okay.  I'll settle for playing in the hayloft.  Oh, that wasn't there either? 

Oh.  But I can balance accounts allright!  $1000 worth of bills in my left hand and another $1000 worth of bill in my right hand while I'm yet standing on both feet.  That's perfect balance.

I ate spare ribs on the 4th of July and set the bones in a garbage can.  Does that count?

How about conning a plane?  Some say I bear an eerie resemblance to Cyrus the Virus (John Malkovich) in Con Air.  But I feel more comfortable saying  "Put the bunny back in the box."

Planning an invasion is usually overkill.  Just do it.  It really take nothing to get up in the middle of the night and open the refrigerator door.

Hence, entomologists don't just study insects.  They are insects.

I suppose if I had to be an entomologist, I'd want to be an even-more specialized  forensic entomologist.  What do they do?  It's fascinating: check it out.

I could never butcher a hog unless it was absolutely necessary.  Though I used to butcher insects in my youth just for the hell of it (a.k.a "I shot a man in Reno...just to watch him die.")   But I never specialized in the butchering of insects.  Ergo, I am not one of them.  whew.

Is pitching manure the same as shooting the shit?   I'm really good at that.