Why The Hell Shouldn't I Run Away

I Used To Think I Preferred Getting Old To The Alternative, But Now I'm Not Sure. Sometimes The Momotony Of Bingo And Sing-alongs And Ancient Dusty People Parked In The Hallway In Wheelchairs Makes Me Long For Death. Particularly When I Rememver That I'm One Of The Ancient Dusty People, Filed Away Like Some Worthless Tchotchke.

Jacob: I've Never Seen So Much Manure. Wade: Baggage Stock Horses. They Pack'em In 27 A Car. Jacob: How Do You Stand The Smell? Wade: What Smell?

I Am Further Back, Surrounded On All Sides By Wailing Men, Their Faces Shiny With Tears. Uncle Al Promised Three Dollars And A Bottle Of Canadian Whiskey To The Man Who Puts On The Best Show. You've Never Seen Such Grief-- Even The Dogs Were Howling.

When You Are Five, You Know Your Age Down To The Month. Even In Your Twenties, You Know How Old You Are. I'm Twenty-three You Say, Or Maybe Twenty-seven. But Then In Your Thirties, Something Strange Starts To Happen. It Is A Mere Hiccup At First, An Instant Of Hesitation. How Old Are You? Oh, I'm--you Start Confidently, But Then You Stop. You Were Going To Say Thirty-three, But You Are Not. You're Thirty-five. And Then You're Bothered, Because You Wonder If This Is The Beginning Of The End. It Is, Of Course, But It's Decades Before You Admit It.

I Want Her To Melt Into Me, Like Butter On Toast. I Want To Absorb Her And Walk Around For The Rest Of My Days With Her Encased In My Skin. I Want.