Uncorporeal foe

In my middle-aged fugue, someone does me harm.

Something uncorporeal is using me as its own private latrine for its dysenteric ways. Somebody without a telephone number or gonads that I can unleash my fury upon. Someone without a garden that I can crap on or windows I can break.

I am permanently drenched in fourtysomething objectless resentments and grudges. I want to kick out at something and find my mark without falling flat on my face.

Pathological Paragon

Suck a little too hard on a ciggie and you are bound to rent something in your throat. A little cough can rape you violently and a sneeze threatens to lop your head off. Loose a little sleep and all manner of illness curry the flavour of your miserable existence. Do a little exercise and you are greeted by an encyclopaedic range of pains and aches.

Your back is in a terminal case of giving up for good and your feet are best friends with the most unmentionable of fungi. Your nose sprouts enough hair to trap bugs for its carnivorous fancies and your ears turn entrepreneurial with their gum factories. Scales fissure your lips and your tongue is invariably dressed up and ready to exit its unenviable abode.

And I prefer not to talk about my knees..

Three days to my 41st birthday and I am a fourty something year old pathological paragon.

My clan

Poking about my fogshrouded greybleary past, I have been casting anectodal glances at the deaths of my life. You know.. giving my stock of remembrance a bit of a stir... recounting the dead I once knew. Shucks.. I am nearing my expiry date myself. Thought I will refresh my memory you know. Give the rolldeck dedicated to my once-weres a bit of a spin!

Not a lot that will incite any measure of envy and conjecture. But my own lot you know. My dynasty. My clan.

The exercise is an incontrovertible example of a slow drift into a fourty something morbid hell. Alarmingly enough, the reaper lurks in the coldgrey shadows of my dead.

RAM me

It is funny how the little things keep slipping away from you. Some loiter in the front garden of your memory gradually becoming invisible and shimmying out unnoticed through the gates of oblivion. Others go with a sudden pop. (At least I reckon they must go with an audible pop - like in the cartoons I so love!) Leaving only faint clues to their existence. If at all. Clues that would eventually drive you mad. Like breadcrumbs that lead nowhere. Like an unsolvable puzzle created by some smugfaced pimply teenager.

And if they do lead you somewhere, you find a yawing nothingness. You trace your obscure memory farts only to find an absence. An absence of a memory, an ambition, a thought you might have once had!

You are buggered on all sides. Most of all by your aged RAM working with a clunky hard disk drive.

Synchronicity

You have to admit. The collective display of synchornicity and creativity by God and his chum the Devil is quite astounding. Leave the poor fuckers alone for fourty years of their lives and then whip them away from their pathetic existence and stick a huge blinding sign into their skulls proclaiming - "I am forty something and I know not of any meaning to my life and as a child of the devil I am full of only desolation and despair. Pray do not make me suffer my another winter in this living hell."

Middle aged

So...the medley of forty-something ills, that so delightfully contrive to bugger you up, can be all bunched under the euphomism 'middle-aged'? Perhaps.. but I dont see anything too middle-nothing about this punch-aged poverty. Having pretty names given to the absolute dereliction of everything human is the reason why we welter so serenely in this trough of misery.

The anatomy of choice

Oh..to loiter through life inconspicously. Without the dubious delight of the clouds parting for you with its customary cliche of deliverance and light.

You live your life carelessly trespassing all manner of alternatives without a thought. And then you hit forty. The damn clouds do their dirty trick on you. And wham! You cant seem to go anywhere without stepping into big whopping turds. Everywhere you look, there are an encyclopaedic range of whoppers. Nothing seem to be easy anymore. There are only questions. Of every hue, weight and stink. No more is the uninspected carefree trespassing. Gone are the unweighed happy choices.

It is when you have been adled by forty years of living are you lumbered with the humbling questions. It just makes everything so much less jaunty you know. None of the usual bounce.

Depraved

Mephistopheles..heh... fucking brilliant!

Has that spannered you some? Made you rush for an exit click?

What is really gonna bake your noodle is whether:

1. Mephistopheles exercises his evil by condemning innocents to an eternity of suffering and pain by turning them into 40 something year olds.

2. it is a pact God made with the devil to checkout souls to the dark side ( as fodder for the devil's army of the undead) at the age of 40 as long as the latter keeps his hands off the human race before the aforementioned uncelebratory buggered time. I guess, God figured that there is no saving anyone with 40 years of earthly turpitude.

3. turning 40 itself is an expression of the highest evil. An expression of stooping to the lowest of all possible lows.

Of course, with the advent of time, since Devil plucked his first succulent-ripe forty year old, point two has come to resemble point three.

And I am starting to believe this shit. If I make this hypothesis palatable enough and jam it down the face of enough thirty something year olds, I might just incite mass hysteria. Yeow!!