Thirty-eight days, four hours, 15 minutes, 57 seconds.
In that time, I could shave my beard and regenerate it to an even manlier version than what currently inhabits my face.
I could hand in a two-weeks notice, slightly more than 2 ½ times.
I could start training for a marathon, turn into a lean, mean, running machine, and then decide after Day 37 to stop training for a marathon when I remember that I’m not a douchebag (OK, that one was a stretch).
More realistically, that very specific amount of time is how long it would take me to work though my entire iTunes library. That’s right — 12,660 songs at 91.62 gigs of memory on Ye Olde MacTop. Of course, that’s not even including the unlimited number of songs I access through Spotify, YouTube, my modest vinyl collection, or the Neil Diamond and Hall & Oates cassette tapes in my car for emergency use only (translation: daily use).
Now, as a way to introduce myself to the hearingade faithful, I’m supposed to pluck 12 songs out of that infinite black hole of music nerddom for a playlist (or I guess officially “mixtape,” though I’m young enough I never did such thing before the dawn of the CD burner) that more or less defines me.
Um… unfuckingpossible.
Un.
Fucking.
Possible.
