(Prior posting from my old webspace)

Well, I’m 42.

42.

What a wonderful time of my life it is. DESPITE my recent hardships, and despite my nawing desire to move past this period, and into a new era, I’m really grateful to be here, seeing things from the perspective I’ve arrived at.

I have a few more asses. I have a few more grey hairs. Maybe a bag or two. And yes, I get out of bed and sound like a bag of potato chips being stepped on when I rise, but on the whole, living is good.

Where I am having trouble adapting is to the H-Bomb that’s apparently lodged itself someplace daylight never shines upon.

It’s wonderful having such an unpredictable and deadly nemisis join the team of bodily voices in my chorus. When that red button gets pressed, it’s total anniahlation to every living biological cell within a 15 metre radius.

I speak of my 42 year old ass. It’s taken over my day to day living. Everything now is planned around it’s unpredicatable nature. From sunrise, to sunset, I’m held hostage by the threat of it’s troops hurling tear gas in and around my defense perimeter, making small children cry, animals bolt and sundry adults leer in horror and revulsion.  And I used to be so well liked, too!

When did I become a walking gas filled cesspool of death! I don’t eat beans or anything that could possibly generate the rotted carcass smells I seem to be famous for these days. Ok, a little toot, I understand. But my jeans are now lighter than air, and far more combustible.

It’s gotten so rancid lately that I’m bathing in Axe and Febreze. In fact, Febreze is the only thing keeping my matress from becoming hazardous material. If I could harness this, I would solve a few problems with battery power. Problem is, the hole in the ozone would become a tear in space. All bodies of stellar mass would suddenly be sucked into a vortex so great that a supernova would not be able to fill it’s void.

I’m so lucky. I am surrounded by noxious fabric in here. I’d die 10 000 deaths if anyone ever just “dropped by”.

I can handle aging. I can handle Moobs. I’m having trouble with the “fear factor”.

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