She's like everybody else - she's completely unique.

There are minor variations that skew her off center from the norm, but it's a large, comfortable demographic with ample wiggle room.

The hated but apropos "slackerdom" is inherent (why else a "high-concept" blog crafted during the work day?) as is the vague uneasiness that often accompanies the under-utilized, over-educated, filled-with-potential-but-not-going-anywhere intelligence that wishes it could live long enough to become wisdom.

She has recently discovered concrete proof of her own mortality - first in the endodontist's chair, tears streaming back into her hair; and again in the surprisingly warm and comfortable imaging room during her first mammogram. Her world sharpened into finite days. Now anything done without mindfulness is shameful, offensive, a waste.

Which is horrifying as her entire life, save for a few accidental miracles, is one shameful, offensive waste after another.

She's waited so long - too long? - she needs to do something. The need is a physical ache in her palms, a perma-frown, unbearable restlesness.

She grabs her imp of Danse Macabre. The drydown will bring back old friends and that night spent saying timid goodbyes. Making eye contact for the first and last time. Her last dance with that great old group of freaks.

Green hope wafts from her drying wrists. She settles down to type, and to wait out her memories.