P. D. Clifton

It’s July 18^th 2022.

I’ve been quietly dreading this day.

In exactly six months’ time, I’ll be fifty years old.

I’m half a year away from being half a century.

There’s no upside to this. I mean… fifty. How can this be happening? I’m still a man-child!

What’s there to look forward to, to turning fifty? Not even a midlife crisis (it would only be that, if I actually make it to one hundred in the long run, which seems unlikely). Turning fifty is more like a… two-thirds-of-the-way life crisis. How crap is that?

The situation is DIRE. The forecast is GLOOMY.

Fifty. FIFTY!! FIFFFFFFFTTTTTTYYYYYY!!!

50!!!!!!

AAAARRRGGGGHHHHH!!!!

(As you can see, middle-age has come… but the maturity to deal with it in a sensible manner has not).

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