Bathroom Monologue: No One Listens, Man

The old stories are dear to me because they have been dear to humanity as far back as we can define ourselves as having been human. They come from a seminal age that's scarcely represented in our art or history. These people didn't have movies, television, radio or books. Not even books, those pesky things you go out of your way to avoid reading. Most of these people never even wrote their names. All they had was what they grew and built. All the stories they had were heard somewhere, then told to each other, over and over again. They sang them while they worked. They whispered them to put their children to sleep. They argued over them while they drank. These stories illustrated their values, carried their hopes, and leant comfort across many years that desperately needed it. The stories were the only things from outside their own lives that the people loved enough to remember and hand down. The ones that made it to us should be treated like your grandmother's wedding ring, except not only earning beloved value from two generations of familial charity, but from a thousand, and from a family that reaches around the planet.