If I were to choose my favorite infinitive, it would be “to not go looking for something”. It’s the only verb capable of solidifying the aspects of life you’d want to always be infinite. But it’s also the most difficult to achieve. You swear to yourself to not bust out your magnifying glass and herd of bloodhounds, looking for finger smudges on glass tables, symbolic smatterings of tea leaves and coffee grounds on the bottom of cups, awkward glances noticed across the lawn. Because when it comes down to it, the act of looking for something, ceaselessly, desperately, fervently, is as useful as trying to find the complimentary circles missing from a slice of swiss cheese, forcing square pegs into triangular openings, attempting to make the earth spin on its axis in a different direction. It’s just not natural. Everything finds you in its own way. You have the easiest job in the world, to sit there, accepting all of the slices of swiss cheese and triangular openings that come to you. It’ll find you in the waiting room of your dentist’s office in a magazine article, that realization that hey, maybe you really don’t want to be a dietician. It will find you in the female hygiene section of the grocery store, your best guy friend buys you tampons without you asking ‘cause he knows how much you hate buying them that you think hey, maybe he’s more than my personal feminine product shopper. It will find you. It will find you.