Never a Centurian

It's late. I'm tired. Here I am...typing a a Blog entry. A blog. Blog? Odd.

A life expectancy calculator told me tonight I would live to be 96. 96. I'm not really sure what I think about that...I think I was a bit put off by the fact one of the questions was something like:

I have had unprotected sex or injected illegal drugs...
A) Never
B) One time or less this year
C) More than one time this year
D) I'm humping a hooker while injecting heroin as I take this quiz.

First off...why are my choices limited to 'Never' or 'One time or less this year? Why can't it just be 'Never' or one time ever? Stupid PhD's and their stupid quizveys. (That's quiz and survey's baby) And secondly, and possibly more importantly, why is unprotected sex and injecting illegal drugs the same thing life expectancy-wise? I mean, yeah, I get it. Unprotected sex is bad, but equal to injecting illegal drugs?

The idea of living until 96...if this magic calculator thing is even remotely reliable. Which it isn't because it doesn't factor in all of the crazy shit in life. You know? Like being killed by some random uncalculatable event. :insert witty death involving Vicks vapor rub, a cucumber, and a Pitchfork:.

Anyway...the idea of living until 96 is, well...bloody scary. (Damn it. I hate not being British. Because by being a non-Brit I am not allowed to use this, the most fabulous of all sware words) I'm sort of a dried up old bit of a soul, you know? A bit reactionary, paranoid at times, and cynical and sarcastic. I can't imagine this all rolled up neatly in a burrito of dementia and Alzheimeriffic nineties.

Honestly, I do want to see it unfold. This. Our destiny. I expect a lot of moral rubber-banding, and wind removal from sails, but I'm still leaning on the side of hope we'll get it figured out.

I'm mostly doubtful I think, consciously. Unconsciously, where it counts, where the dreams paint themselves I am, of course, all hope. Just full of it. Brimmin' with good intentions...possibly a butterfly and a bubble or two. But on the outside. On the shell that shows most...it reflects my cynicism.

Did I just type..."Where the dream paint themselves?" W . T . F? I thought I killed the poet in me years ago.

I'm thinking now would be a good time to admit I am passed tired, and into stupid. Long story short: Life expectancy calculators, no matter how much Martha Stewart sings their praise, are a pile of poop. But it's poop with a life expectancy of 78. And that is a few years above the American national average. So yeah...Good job poop.