It’s creeping up in me.
In three years I will be dead.
There is no cure.
You don’t have to grieve for me.
No one will even care.
I will be….
Isn’t that when it happens?
When the gay universe ceases to recognise your existence?
You will, for sexual purposes, be dead.
But salvation is at hand.
I can be reborn.
I can come back.
Be reincarnated as a hot daddy.
Twinks will love me.
Only thing is, I’m not that into twinks.
Oh well, beggars can’t be choosers.
I must take what I’m offered.
So with forty creeping up on me, do I feel forty?
I don’t have any wrinkles.
Just a smattering of rugby scars.
And they make me look distinguished.
OK the hair line is long gone, but I’m in great shape.
I’m up with popular culture.
I listen to spotify.
I don’t wanna die!
I want to be thirty-something forever!
Suck it up Pat!
Keep it together.
Change is a good thing.
Change should be embraced.
The forties are the new thirties.
Yes, that’s right.
You heard it here first.
I’ll get that spotty guy in the gym to inject me with steroids and pop a few blue ones.
Sure I will be grand like.