If the universe is infinite, like science seems to indicate, then everything that is possible exists.

This is particularly mind-boggling when I consider how this near-certainty affects my life, my actions, and my decisions. I imagine an infinite number of Mammoths, doing everything and living in every which way possible.

One is thin, as she has devoted much more energy to exercise and fitness than this particular Mammoth here has. One is still with my ex-girlfriend. One had the baby I was knocked up with years ago. One took that tribe dude up on his offer to go visit him for the weekend. One lives in Spain. One went to Bogota, Colombia, from Mexico City a few years back, instead of moving back to the States. One never left Iran. One never left Toronto. One is a teacher, one is a physicist. One is a dancer, traveling the world, choreographing the most innovative, ground-breaking, earth-shattering dance the world has ever seen. One speaks seven languages. One is married to a Persian doctor, and has three of his children, and gets manicures every week. One killed herself when she was twelve years old.

One has webbed feet. One has a siamese twin. One is a vegan. One is a self-help inspirational speaker and life coach. One died of a cocaine overdose in Guatemala years ago.

How did I get here? Right now, this one moment, is truly the only thing I've got. I've known this, logically, for a long time. But to have that glimmer of understanding, that moment, that breath, when you truly realize it, exhaling, "This is it." Fuck.

I'll never know how much of my life was a result of my own choice, and how much of it was chosen for me, and how much of it just _happened_. It doesn't matter. Those ideas are just human constructs and it's all just a web of interconnected actions and bodies and thoughts and compost anyway. It's all just my dirty ballet slippers in the corner of the room. It's my cigarette butts and used tampons and the to go cup my milkshake came in a few days ago and that old avocado pit intermingling in the plastic bag in my dumpster. (When will this building start composting?)

It's the man with the ever changing facial expressions who pours glasses of wine that he never finishes and tells me he loves me and lives a two-hour drive away. It's his child, who refuses to beatbox for me over the phone.