As age trembles over me like a sandstorm, I feel as if I just woke up to find out that I am fifty-eight years old. Just yesterday I was twenty-two, the day before that, I was four. Not quite sure how it all happened, but it did, and there’s no point mulling over spoiled milk. Or spoiled dreams. Or spoiled lives. Or whatever.
I’m an old geezer now. I’m allowed to be cynical. In fact, I’m supposed to be. Didn’t you know that all old people are forsaken? We gave up on the world when it gave up on us. Even evolution isn’t on our side. The only thing cheering for us now is death, and every day, every hour, and every second, it roars louder. Sometimes it gets so loud, you’d think us old fogeys were playing a competitive sport with a million fans watching, but in reality, there is only one.
So grim, in fact, most people can only think about how old and sullen I look. It’s disgusting the way my mouth flakes from time to time. Horrid wouldn’t even begin to describe the sounds my worn-out, splintered lips produce. To make matters worse, my crow’s feet look like a dried eel’s carcass. Imagine that. Crow’s feet on an eel carcass. Talk about the wonders of evolution.
Regardless, no matter what I say, no matter the wisdom I try to impart, all people can think about is shipping me off to an old-age home.
“Ha!” I say, “Bring it on pups.” I know of no greater evil that that of an old-age home. So, come on. Make my day. Kiddies, gold still has the word old in it, and one day I dreamt that I won the Golden Gloves. Whether that happened or not, I don’t really remember. Memories fade. People succeed. Others don’t.
And in my lifetime, I went through a war, you know. That taught me how to die for nothing. Which war, you ask? The Iraq one. Just about the stupidest war there ever was, if there could be a smart war that is. It happened sometime when I turned fifty-eight. Although most people don’t know it, that’s a long time. An old, farting time to be exact.
As a result, I, like many of our more antiquated humans, am out of commission. No longer do I have much value, besides of course, the fact that I can still poop, fart, and complain like the whole lot of society. So, I try to do my share.
That’s why I write this. Here’s my bucket list, which has taken on a whole new meaning for me. In my most humbled opinion, there are only two kinds of buckets: one people spit into with a banjo in hand or another people crap into when lacking a toilet. Both of which happen on the countryside. Too bad I don’t live there. I hear it’s sunny.
So anyways, here’s my bucket list. I’ll fill it with a spit-full and a shit load of complaints. Well – actually – just one:
Life’s a pretty nice thing. Some days, it’s too goddamn nice.
But don’t put any hopes of wisdom on me. I just got here on this planet some fifty-eight years ago. I know diddly-squat about diddly-do. I live. I die. I make mistakes. Then, like this, I end awkward and abruptly and I want to say more.