This is it.
My last good day of life, almost complete.
Here I am, consigned to the dustbin of history, cast out from the Logan's Run this world has become, twenty years after the due date.
Never again to know the fourty-something dawn of a new day. Never again to know what it is to eat like a fourty-something, to shower like a fourty-something, to have sex or sleep or take a crap like a fourty-something.
And how did I spend my next-to-last evening? Did I party like it was 1999? Was I out and about on the town, drinking and raising a ruckus with the Miley Cyrus? Did I pick up a few boy toys and show them who their daddy really really is?
Well, I did go party, actually. I did have a few drinks. Hmmm. I was out and about on the town. I did dance on a dance floor and raise kind of a ruckus. Well, at least, I threw candy down a girl's boobs. Does that count?
I wouldn't say I partied like it was 1999, though. Maybe 1979.
Hopefully, my birthday night will be a bit more fun. Corb is taking me out to a nice restaurant...and then...before I lay me down to sleep...to wake up another day closer to feeling the hot stale breath of the Grim Reaper panting down into my face (does the Grim Reaper dress in anything other than that ugly black torn robe. At least, maybe for gay men? Something fabulous?). But before that, perhaps I'll find it in me to muster up one last night of passion...one last evening of martinis and rumpled bedsheets...before...before...sob, I just can't bring myself to say it...
Ah, who am I kidding? Before the next ten years of a life I'm pretty damn grateful for begins. Here's to more ruckus! More ruck! More ruck!