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Stream It Or Skip It: 'Snoopy Presents: For Auld Lang Syne' On Apple TV+, Where Lucy Throws A Big New Year's Shindig And Charlie Brown Worries Over Resolutions Stream It Or Skip It: 'Trolls: Holiday in Harmony' on Hulu, an Animated Joysplosion of Annoying Singing and Visual Delight Stream It or Skip It: 'Blending Christmas' on Lifetime Wastes a Perfectly Good 'Brady Bunch' Reunion
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I can't shake the number but the number won't shake me.Stream It or Skip It: 'A Christmas Proposal' on CBS Resurrects the Old Fashioned Major Network TV Movie Zero clue what I'll do next but I hope to have time, swab be damned.
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If I see April 5th, I'll write a new chapter free of irony and delusion. I sold nihilism as fad, a way to smirk at the dwindling clock. I can't remember a single April 4th of the past. I am over twice the age of our average consumer.

In two minutes my first Departure Day begins. Statistically the odds are largely in favor of living a long life, but those odds pale against the confidence of the number tattooed behind my ear:Ĥ-04. But fate is an arsonist, an intruder, a skate at the top of the stairs. Most folks just stay in and wait out the night, hopeful that the comfort of home might shield against the inevitable. Take the hint.) So many times I've overheard someone curse us for this technology, and I not only think of the billboards but also the waiver they signed, worded by me. (You'd be amazed how many people with the same Departure Day decide to hang out only to die together in a car accident or gas leak. Best to steer clear – especially if any of them share the same date. Friends huddle, cooing that everything's going to be all right, tamping down tears and screams. Better luck next year, Death.Īt the other end of the coping spectrum, you can spot at a restaurant or bar when someone's having a meltdown. If the year is incorrect, the host enjoys nonstop eulogies before defiantly rising and signaling the start of a decadent party. If the dreaded year is correct, then at least family and friends are gathered to say goodbye.

The wealthy prefer to throw gaudy wakes, where the host lies motionless. When Departure Day rolls around, most plan accordingly. In other words, skydiving has never been more popular. Sorry, kids.)įor some the certainty of 364 days in the clear relieves a lot of existential worry. A fan petition sought to name our discovery Death Clock. (By the way, I wanted to call it Death Date but got outvoted. Parents are horrified, but then they've never understood. Pay upfront, get swabbed, await your result, and then ink your obsolescence. Our most popular option – the one I regret drunkenly allowing last summer – are tattoos. For varying fees you can learn the date, or get it printed on a shirt, pillow, or scroll. My company sells a host of Departure Date services for which I supply snappy copy. I've heard it parroted on late-night talk shows and spun into memes. What is the connection between saliva and temporal time? Who knows, but as the billboards say, "Swab Don't Lie!" Study after study has validated this impossibility. The swab and algorithm can only predict which day of which month. (The font, Albertus, looks cool too, I guess.) It's nice to have an icebreaker, though in truth, I wish I didn't possess the sobering knowledge the numbers convey: That I will surely die on April 4th.Īpril 4th is my Departure Date. The numbers tattooed behind my right ear are the envy of every party, a signifier that I know more of my fate than every generation that ever lived and expired before.
