Some years back, a buddy of mine gave me a hand-carved Tibetan skull necklace he found amongst the baubles and trinkets of New York.
I loved this skull. It was maybe one inch from brainpan to jaw. The polishing was perfect, the carving simple but fine, the stone a beautiful deep green, flecked with black and yellow. The string went straight through the ear holes.
I tied it around my wrist and never took it off.
The string, though, was flimsy, cheap. It wore right through, seemingly evaporating before my very eyes a little more each time it got wet. Every shower, every dish washed brought that poor little band of fibers inevitably closer to doom, until it finally snapped.
Now my buddy, Charlie, he told me when he gave it to me that the skull was supposed to symbolize impermanence.
Well, you can imagine how I laughed when I looked down one day to discover the damn thing had disappeared. All that remained was the string, the two dangling cords that once bound it to me flicking against my wrist.
It served its purpose pretty well, I thought.

My next thought was: "Ah, to hell with it," and I went in on an adjustable-rate mortgage.
Naw, not really. I just needed a good kicker.

Also, I'm pretty sure this is where that whole second commandment comes into play:

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Luckily, they have, like, a dozen of those things in the cellar.