I'm about 18 months away from my sixtieth birthday. My. Sixtieth. Birthday.
I don't know what the fuck I'm doing still here. When I was in my teens, I assumed I wouldn't make it to forty. I assumed we'd have a nuclear war, or I'd get hit by a drunk driver, or I would just get fed up and kill myself. But I'm still here.
I have it all pretty much figured out. No, really, I do — seriously. I've written about it here in a scattershot kind of way. Maybe I should organize it all into outline form, so it makes more sense. But the main thing is, I don't have a lot of heavy profound questions left. Everything's settled in my mind, and no mysteries remain to be unraveled.
The one part I never figured out was how I was supposed to fit into the big picture. Maybe I just don't. But at this point, what difference does it make how I fit in? They're cueing up the closing credits as I write this.
People keep telling me I could live another twenty years. Like I would want to do that. Another twenty years of cleaning up cat shit.
Okay, that's enough self-pity for now. I don't want to use it all up.
2 comments:
I should mention, I guess, that I have friends who are already sixty, and they all seem more comfortable with it than I am at fifty-eight and a half.
I vote for an outline. Please provide when you have the time.
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