My birthday is approaching.
I will be quite old by August.
Sometimes, memory slips: I cannot quite remember. Was I younger once?
Was I ever important?
What about the one that got away?
No, not that one: the other one.
Do they ever think of me today?
I do them.
It is tempting to watch YouTube videos, drink endless beers, and relive the past.
One wonders: what difference does it make if I have sagging skin or chicken legs?
I will probably be dead sooner than later.
Dead.
Worm food.
Not throwing in the towel just yet, though.
After all, I have some interior wall painting to do.
Leaving Amerika 