Someday over the last couple weeks I turned 25. It's the most horrifying age I've ever been. I'm now a quarter-of-a-century old. I'm halfway to halfway dead. My best years are behind me, and now my life is like a train recklessly speeding toward the wasteland of 30, where it will inevitably crash and kill millions.
Already I'm experiencing some signs of old age:
-Arthritis: My hands can no longer type without significant pain, so I hired a typing monkey to do all my word processing at work. I dictate, he types. He's not as literate as I would like, but you work with what you get. So I get to work with a monkey.
-Memory loss: This has always been a problem, so I don't really care.
-Yelling at punk kids: The monkey knows how to skateboard, so I find myself shaking my fist at him and yelling about his shenanigans as he rolls by. It's embarassing for both of us, but mostly for him, I imagine.
I can't remember what else I was going to write.
4 comments:
So... about the whole age thing. I can't be your friend anymore. I'm allergic to old people.
My nasal cavity is acting up just writing this to you.
Next time your monkey acts up, remind him his life could turn to crap really quick:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q8TBYtII9rA
Oh and HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
Have you begun to noticed the added comfort and support offered by pulling you pants waist up to your nipples?
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