Why are there rubber bands.

Everywhere I go in New York City there are rubber bands on the ground.

My sidewalk is littered with them every day. At first, I was afraid people were shooting them from apartment windows at naïve passers-by, and I said to Al that it was like walking through a field of dead bodies, only less violent, which makes sense because each rubber band was, like, basically a chalk line, assuming accurate fire. But then I found a couple on the subway platform, and there aren’t windows there. So I’ve done away with that theory and no longer feel like I’m kicking up skull dust on my way to work.

I’ve now taken up a more cosmological stance on the issue in that I believe someone is trying to tell me something, i.e. God.

Possible interpretations of finding rubber bands all over the fucking place:

I am destined to invent something similarly simple and useful, become a captain of industry, marry Serena van der Woodsen, and retire to a giant gated estate to live a life of empty luxury until one of the Dobermans eats a grandchild.

The vaguely circular shape of the reposeful rubber band represents my life path, informing me that my life will end where it began, with my rifle, shooting at pie tins in a small clearing.

The elastic nature of rubber bands quasi-parallels my future as a “before” model for Bowflex equipment.

I’ll eventually choke to death on a rubber band that has been inadvertently dropped into a cup of lobster bisque from Le Dog in Ann Arbor, MI.