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A bag of marshmallows 0

Dear Bradshaw,

            I gotta say, brother, I’m getting older. You may think 37 ain’t so old but seriously it’s getting to the point where I breathe in and my back aches. Meanwhile, when I get out of bed in the morning my joints crack like a pack of firecrackers. If I sleep in an awkward position or overexert myself while exercising, pain strikes and stays. Used to be I could take a punch: skin my knee, stub my toe, fall down a flight of stairs and then get up as if I’d fallen on a bag of marshmallows. Those days are over. Remember I told you, maybe five months ago I was suffering from a kink in the neck? Still am. Incredible, isn’t it? If I were eighteen, it would have healed before it had happened.

            Age is creeping in, sneaking up on me from behind and underneath and inside and out. I’m getting older. We’re getting older. Pretty soon we’ll be pushing up daisies, pal. Imagine us, underground, six feet or more because, inevitably, that’s where we’ll be one day. Of course, I know what you’re thinking = we could drown in the ocean and be eaten by sharks and then, well, we wouldn’t be six feet under, would we? That, my friend, is a minor detail.

            Whatever the case, we’re here now and we’re old dudes. Remember the days before answering machines, when a missed call was a missed call? What about Bugs Bunny, Space Invaders and Monopoly?

            Ah, well, whatever. All I can say, my good man, is that when my time comes I will close my eyes, think about nothing, everything, and hope it happens faster than I can say, “Ouch.”

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