As Warren Ellis might say, here is proof of continued life. I am now 56.
When I was a kid I looked much older than my physical age. I matured at a stupidly early age, so while I was generally a year or two younger than my peers, I looked a year or two older than most of them. This held me in good stead for a long time; I looked thirty for close to twenty years, and looked forty until I was in my early fifties.
Unfortunately, someone must have found the portrait in the attic. I now look old — old and tired. Moreover, I feel old and tired. My fifty-fifth year was rough, and it would be foolish optimism to think that my fifty-sixth will be any easier.
But rather than piss and moan about unexplained neurological incidents, baffling medical dilemmas, and the like, I’ll just chalk this up to an ennui born of a world in desperate need of a change, leavened with the bitterness and vitriol generated by a presidential election year. This, too, shall pass.
Or I will.