If you really believe, Alamo Girl, that life is just 'a poor player that struts and frets, a tale told by an idiot' and all that, and that before too long we all will step off into a pitch-dark abyss of eternal nothingness . . believing that, what prevents one from going home and facing the business end of a 12 gauge shotgun?
I mean, what's the point?
(AlamoGirl: `Thank you for your input, insight, tumblindice!')
You're welcome in advance.