Putrid Modern Hell #4

by HST UK on March 18, 2011

I’m older but I don’t feel any smarter

“Age is not a particularly interesting subject. Anyone can get old. All you have to do is live long enough.”

-Groucho Marx

The other day I turned 27. I woke up the morning of my birthday with aching knees and a bruised ankle. I had a sniffly nose and my hair seemed to recede another few millimetres overnight. Fear got me in a stranglehold. What have I achieved thus far? What have I got to look forward to in the future?

Hug me, I’m lonely.

When walking through the city at lunch, clutching my pathetic Tesco’s meal deal (chicken and bacon wrap, a Kit Kat and bottle of Apple Juice for those interested); I noticed the young, with their perky smiles, skipping along the streets covered in pigeon shit and chewing gum. I wanted to grab hold of one of the bastards and yell that it’s all going to get much worse. Wait for the day when you realize your dreams are unattainable and you are stuck like an overweight hamster in the wheel of society’s great con machine.

I jokingly posted a Facebook update to my acquaintances / beloved followers “Thanks for all the birthday wishes. I am officially old and past my sexual prime.” I meant this, my libido is shrinking, I cannot imagine any female would enjoy seeing my hairy walnuts slapping pathetically against her inner thighs. I feel like Pele before his life was rejuvenated by endorsing viagra.

Surprisingly I soon settled down into my role as an old timer. I realized that it’s now pointless to worry about life. Gone are the glory years, from here on in the decline becomes inevitable. I’ve started by giving away most of my possessions to charity shops. Old t-shirts that represent fashion faux pas and bands I used to listen to that I can now only cringe about. There is one camouflaged horror garment from a metal band called God Forbid that states “Metal as Fuck” on the back. Yes, once my friends I was once a rocker, now I favour evenings with Leonard Cohen and ear plugs to protect me from outside industrial noise.

Nothing makes me feel old more than nights spent out on the town. Since I work most Saturday’s I’ve resigned myself to a midnight curfew. How boring I feel when I am forced to abandon my pint, responsibly find myself a taxi, and force myself as an adult to have a gentlemanly conversation with the taxi driver about Emerson, Lake and Palmer.

As I get older I tend to procrastinate more. On Sunday’s I sleep til noon, wishing that somehow I’d stay in my dreams. I hope Monday never arrives. When I do wake up I spend the best part of the afternoon reading YouTube comments underneath videos of pets getting stuck in washing machines. I then listen to hip hop’s finest posse cuts. “What’s the difference between me and you? You talk a good one – but you don’t do what you supposed to do / I act on what I feel and never deal wit emotions / I’m used to livin big dog style and straight coastin”.

Sometime around the evening I will drink a couple of cans of Strongbow and write poems. These poems are often tinged mournfully with regret. Others are utter drivel, the kind of preposterous wank that would’ve had Charles Bukowski spin in his grave, kick through his coffin, dig up from six feet under, track me down (via a quick Google search) and kick my weak ass.

Thank God I’m selfish and egotistical. Because otherwise I’d be concerned that all my peers are out living successful lives, making shed loads of money, having lots of guilt free sex, doing the best drugs, driving top notch motors and then in their free time settling down into something resembling normalcy.

Ageing isn’t a bad thing; though I always had a romantic notion that I would join the ‘27 Club’, and leave behind a glorious legacy. Instead, because I haven’t achieved much of note I now have to plod onwards, hoping that I will find genius in middle age, as I get wiser. I do hope that I find genius before Alzheimer’s or some other horrid brain taker befalls me.

It would be nice to be cooler as I get older. Maybe find myself as a William Burroughs-like figure for a generation of new writers. Buy myself a leather jacket perhaps, get a sports car and fly around Brands Hatch like the casually racist dudes on Top Gear. I’ve seen a lot of old guys, greying or balding men with flabby bellies with hot Thai chicks on their arthritic arms, so I’ll order one of those. Yeah, come to think about it, the older I get, in theory the more money I can save. Sure, I’ll probably be walking around with more metal in my body then Robocop, but at least I’ll have enough cash to cross a few things off of my bucket list.


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