I might just be to tired to blog tonight. Maybe too shagged out, fucked up, stove in and beat down. Some days, well you know how it is. The atoms that came together to make a person, carbon and whatever, just don't feel all that tightly strung together. Like they might fly apart at any second and turn back into space dust.
Young people never worry about turning back into space dust. When you're 15 you are convinced that all the scalding hot thoughts bubbling up in your brain are only being thunk just now, for the first time. You think the love you feel is the only love that's ever been worth feeling. And the fact that you don't like brussel sprouts is an absolute truth, that it says something significant about the true nature of brussel sprouts.
When you're 20, you begin to suspect, but only when afflicted with a terrible hangover, that some people may be made of space dust, but certainly not you. When you're vomiting everything up but your pancreas, you might get an inkling of the fact that somebody somewhere might have felt what you're feeling now, before. Maybe, if you're very lucky, you have slogged your way through Romeo and Juliet, thereby admitting to yourself that once, but only once in the history of humankind, somebody loved as strongly and tragically as you do.
You still, however, don't care much for brussel sprouts. Anybody who likes them must be clinically insane.
When you're 30, all the things that seemed so dire in your twenties, settle down a little bit. You start to suspect that it might be time to quit all the hard drugs, 'cause you just can't shake it off the way you used to. And the drinking, it has become not so much a problem, not even a concern really, just sort of something you're developing some consciousness about; and aren't all those people stupid and lame who never do. In your thirties, you stop ordering that third martini, that second bottle of wine when you're by yourself, but only because you don't want to turn into your parents. Perish the thought. Or if you're Catholic, parish the thought.
Forty is a bitch. In your 40's if you're a woman, you want to have sex all the time. This is because your ovaries are screaming out, "hey, do it girl. This is your last chance. If you don't spread your genetic material now, your line is gonna go dead and that's hardcore death for sure. Get to it woman, hump the busboy if you have to, but get the job done.
If you're a guy, you start wondering if it's your belly that's getting bigger or your dick that's getting smaller. You're not sure which you're hoping for, but if it's the latter at least you can keep eating buffalo wings and curly fries.
Fifties. I don't know because I'm not there yet. I will be in a month or so, and I suspect it will be bad. Even now, sometimes I look in the mirror in the morning and wonder who that old woman is. I suspect when a person turns 50, they no longer have any illusions about originality, love, or even brussel sprouts. I suspect that when a person turns 50, she lays abed at night trying every goddamn argument she can to counter the stark fact that she probably came from space dust and she's gonna turn back into space dust in hardly any more time at all.
I suspect this is what happens to such people, but of course I don't really know.