At 6:00 in the morning, my girlfriend will board a plane for Puerto Rico for a vacation. There's a piece of my mind that is exceptionally loud (though it's still in the back) that says that tonight might be the last time I see her. The plane could crash, or get blown up by some mysterious missile, and crash land in warm waters. I'd never see her again. Half of me says it's impossible, the other half knows it isn't, because it's happened before and I've seen the crying girls and the gritty guys standing over caskets for people that should not be dead.
I turned 22 about a month and a half ago; I'm just about that age that Ryer was when he died last year. He always seemed so much older than me...and now I'm where he was. If I died in a week, we would have lived the same amount of time. It's incredibly unnerving. It took this realization to understand exactly how young he was when he died, and exactly how much life he had left.
I also realized that if I make it to 110, I might be able to spend as much time getting social security as I did working to put money into it. It's something to shoot for.