I write myself letters, seal them, and then write the age I must be when I can open them again.
Man, the me of 82 had better have a sense of humour because that last letter was a little insulting.
He unscrewed the cap and took a sip, which turned into a swig, which then turned into a skull. Drowning his sorrows in alcohol once again, it would always be this way, he could never change.
He sat down in his rocking chair on the porch and simply stared out into the distant sunrise, all the while taking short little sips from his fresh coffee, and quick little puffs from his stale cigarettes.
It really was a completely different world out there, without her by his side.
Getting old really just snuck up on me.
One minute you’re 120, fit and healthy, the next you’re 450 and starting to get those first wrinkles.
I really can’t pinpoint the moment I went from being young and fun to being old and sour.
Sometime after I started my first serious job and somewhere between the third and tenth time I had to sell out everything I believed in is my best guess.
Another sign you are getting old.
When you go from being invited to your neighbours’ parties to getting a note in the letterbox telling you there is a party and “they’ll try to keep it down!!!”