“Age is just a number,” old people often say. Just a meaningless human construct invented to provide an illusion of control over an unpredictable and perilous existence. But when old people break a hip, and age becomes a concrete and very expensive reality. Frankly, my friend, I'm not looking forward to it.
I'm now officially past my “Best By” date.
Should time, in fact, prove to be linear, I'll turn 60 this month. Shocking, right? Well, it oughta be! I have the complexion of a teenager, assuming that teenager has advanced psoriasis or a serious meth problem.
Lasting this long comes at a steep price.
Friend, I try not to think about the cost of food, housing, energy, and education that has, thus far, only resulted in…well, me. All those resources would've been far better spent on a scientist, doctor, or first responder. Hell, even a last responder.
It's not over until a coroner calls it.
With the time I've got left on this planet—and hopefully, that's a lot—I aim to repay my debt to society through charitable donations. Any cash I don't spend on blood transfusions from orphans will go toward undoing all the damage my existence has caused. But not one red cent will go to Kars4Kids—those remorseless bastards get nothing!
Tempus fugit,* folks.
* Latin for, “Time flies.” I only know this because my college philosophy professor used to say it every day to remind us that our midterm and final papers were coming due. He was kinduva dick that way. Worse, he only gave my dissertation, “Are hot dogs actually just tacos?” a lousy C+.
