It’s my Birthday. I’m officially “old”. And not in the cutesy “he, he, I just turned 29 and I am old now” kind of way. More like “Holy shit, I really am old because I am well past the halfway point of my life expectancy, and statistically, the majority of my life IS over.”

As a matter of fact, I walked down the street this morning and a mound of dirt shouted to me “Damn motherfucker, you’re old! I ain’t never gonna be as old as your old ass.”

I have already had the discussion with people that tell me that age is “only a number”.

While I appreciate their attempt at fomenting a positive outlook on the subject, the fact is that they are woefully incorrect.

Old people like myself feel the need to lie to ourselves.

The average life expectancy for US males is 75 years versus 81 years for females. So much for the “women’s health crisis” nonsense that the morning shows cram down our lemming throats nearly every day.

But I digress …

The point is that statistically, at 40, the majority of our lives are behind us. We are not going to live again as long as we already have. And the latter part will be fraught with all kinds of health problems we could never dream of: lessening mobility, deteriorating mental sharpness, diabetes, coronary artery disease, cancer, limp dicks, sagging ballsacks, growing prostates, ear hair, you name it.

By natural design, it is going to be a living hell … which, as we fight to survive and make the best of, and regardless of what we do or how we handle it … still ends in one way, and only one way.

Death.

So while it is “just a number” … so is the winning lottery ticket. Or the amount on your mortgage.

The “number” still has meaning and repercussions.

In our case, it represents that we are growing ever more precariously close to the ultimate dirt nap.

On the bright side, there usually is some kind of cake involved on the day itself.

Thank goodness there is no age limit for creating self-indulgent, bullshit websites with your name gratuitously stamped in the URL like a desperate attention whore … and proceeding to write lengthy diatribes about yourself like anyone remotely cares.

I don’t feel like posting any “Vegasy” shit today. I’m going out to buy some Depends undergarments, arthritis cream, and Viagra so I can continue to keep the livestock happy.

Send presents or go to hell.

Thank you.