Nothing lasts forever. Not diamonds, not love, not mountains, not kingdoms. Forever is a long time, after all. Four or five billion years down the road even the sun will give out.
But soap?! Really?! What the fuck?!
I bought some token dish soap before leaving for California a half decade ago. It stayed with me in Berkeley, where I had no kitchen, and followed me to Las Vegas, where I do have a kitchen. It’s more than just soap. It’s a rock. It’s the lone symbol of stability amidst the chaos of my life.
The other day I saw it out of the corner of my eye and smiled, remembering the times we’ve shared. I picked it up and, for the first time, noticed embossed text on the back side. Upon closer examination, I discovered it expired a little over a year and a half ago.
But what kind of man would I be if I let something as arbitrary as an expiration date determine the course of my life?