As my birthday approaches, I'm noticing how fucking old I feel of late. The thumb has, finally, stopped aching whenever it rains and it no longer feels sore but, thankfully, I've got a slew of other odd aches and pains to offset the relief of not being achy in the thumb.
At first I thought the hip and shoulder pain was a result of those fucking water slides but, now, a week later, and the hip still aches, the shoulder still pains. It's a nasty, pissing rain kind of day and, as I learned with the thumb, those stories of being able to tell when it will rain, thanks to aches and pains in the joints, is, absolutely, unequivocably, true. My hip is killing me. My shoulder is throbbing and, yes, even the mother fucking thumb is aching a bit.
It's no longer thought to be related to old man shouldn't be riding water slides meant for ten year olds type bruising. No, I am now, gasp gasp, sure that I, at 42 (almost), suffering from arthritis.
I want to die.
Seriously.
It's sad.
It's pathetic.
It's demoralizing.
Knowing that the aging process is settling in on me, slowing me down, making me stop to rest my, dare I say it, weary bones, is making me sad.
It's fucking depressing, facing the cold, hard truth.
When I get out of bed in the morning, I moan like a geezer.
When I stand up, I hear odd pops and creaks.
I'm going walker shopping this afternoon and, tonight, I'm studying tapes of Donald Trump so I can master the swirly swoop comb over.
If I'm lucky, someone will kill me, put me out of my aching misery.
Please?
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