Bucket list, shmucket list.
We’re all familiar with the phrase ‘kicking the bucket’, a euphemism, presumably derived during an era where staging one’s own demise was accomplished by standing on a bucket, securing a noose, and kicking away. Goodbye cruel world.
And to the credit of modern society, we’ve managed to travel further down the morbid path of introspection by altering, for the sake of brevity and hapless wit, an already grim concept.
The fact that this expression is so widely overused is in itself an irritant of significant proportions. I can no longer acknowledge the term, nor can I feign the slightest bit of interest when the topic is broached. Monotony, repetition, pie-in-the-sky generalities have combined to successfully dilute the concept into another bland cliché that’s lost all meaning and significance.
“That’s going on my bucket list.”
Fantastic, but I’m not interested.
Regardless if it’s paragliding in Costa Rica, retracing…
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