Do yerself a favor… die young…
“So”, she asks, “It’s yer birthday,
anything special
you wanna do?”
We been married for
a lotta years
a lot...
But
I’m obviously a slow learner,
So I answer,
“Yeah, I’m 75. . .
but I still like sex,
so let’s lay around in bed all-day
and do that…”
“You mean
make love?”
she asks.
And I THINK;
“Nah, I mean tear your clothes off
and get drunk on tequila
and watch porno
and do everything
I can think of
which includes a ton
of nasty shit you don’t even wanna do!”
But instead, I answer,
“Yes, make love.”
She says,
“We have to take the dog
for a walk first.”
I say, “Okay, a quick walk, like to Udall Park.”
“No,” she interrupts, “too much dust there at Udall,
and I have to be careful,
what with my recent pneumonia;
let’s go to Rillato.”
I say
“Okay, that’s fine.”
But I don’t mean it.
And besides
all the magic of the
big Birthday
fuck-fest fantasy
is already ruined
by all these geographic
logistics and shit;
Rillato is way further from our house
than Udall —
and by the time we
find the leash
and get out to the car
and load the dog
and realize we’ve forgotten
a bottle of water
and have to go back
and get one
so the dog doesn’t get
too overheated on my birthday
and etc. etc.
blah, blah...
Let’s just jump to the chase here.
There ain’t a lot
to celebrate about
turning
74 fuckin’ years old.
And today,
the only time in my entire life
where I have to face down
this reality,
there’s even less —
Trust me on this one.
