Live Fast, Die Eventually

I came to a disheartening realization the other day - in exactly two months, when I turn thirty-two, I will no longer be eligible to Live Fast, Die Young. It was bound to happen sooner or later, but the prospect of Live Fast Die Middle Aged or Live Fast Die Old and Decrepit, smelling of gamey free-range jerky and covered in a thin layer of waxy keratin, like an apple, waiting for the machines that keep me alive to error out so that the life cycle may start anew - is a brand of bullshit I was not prepared to face. I'm starting to reassess burning down the highway on my motorcycle doing ninety miles an hour in heavy traffic, bobbing, weaving and swerving between cars, my mind now flooding with thoughts of sliding at high speeds under tractor-trailers and buses, tumbling and flinging until what is left of me looks like barbequed spareribs. Fireworks indoors seems foolish, swatting unsuspecting friends in the balls seems cruel, general hell-raising, which once tasted so sweet, now tastes bitter like the top a nine volt battery...

There used to be a time when my epitaph would read: He tasted life, ran as fast as he could and kicked god square in the balls. He was a champion on the tops of mountains, and he communed with the yipping wild dogs. He took no shit and died with his teeth clenched and his fists balled. Here lies a True Warrior.

But now I fear it will look something like: Beyond his youth, he lived out his days in front of the television, eating microwavable burritos, watching reruns of Spanish soap operas, withering away until he was a shadow of a man, eventually dying of white guilt. Here lies some curds.

Oh, but all of this is starting to sound depressing. Now that I think of it, growing old and dying just isn't for me. Yes, fuck it - I've only just begun. Perhaps I can Live Fast Die Eventually due to Misadventure.