I find myself not looking on news sites anymore because I will invariably find something about Steve Irwin.
Yeah, I'm still on about that.
I find that I'm not alone in my odd feelings. As I walk through my dorm hallways, I see tributes to the Crocodile Hunter on white boards. People still talk about it, most of the time with downcast faces.
I couldn't figure out why the death of one man a world away could affect so many people on my campus. I know of one person who met him, but the rest of us only knew him from Animal Planet or his run-ins with the press. The death of the pope caused less consternation. I just couldn't understand.
Then I spoke to my roommate, a paragon of wisdom clothed in giggly, dippy exterior.
"Well," she said, "it was just so sudden and random. And he was young too. You could sort of relate to him."
I guess it's not just that we miss our beloved Crocodile Hunter, we also have our mortality shoved into our faces. College kids aren't used to that. We think nothing of crossing the road in the direct path of on-coming cars or drinking enough to kill a horse, then getting up the next day to do it all over again. What happens if one day that car doesn't slow down? Or if that last sip of alcohol is just too much for our bodies to handle? What then?
Well, then we die. Simple as that.
But what else does our impending death say to us? It reminds us of that old, cliched saying, "live each day like it's your last." Death is coming, people. Everyday, our internal clocks continue winding down and we get a little older. This is all we have. Drink yourself silly. Travel. Do incredibly stupid things. You might not get to do it again tomorrow.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some manifesto-writing to do. No time like the present!
PS. Thanks, Steve.