At Death's Intercom

I am about to hit Year 40+ohmygod with the speed of an eighteen-wheeler, one driven by a trucker jacked up on generic caffeine pills, warm diet Dr. Pepper, a handful of dry roasted macadamia nuts and a stick of turkey jerky. But not even my glowing stretch marks, the fact that my youngest child says "chillax" or catching sight of my white-gray, bloated, wing-tipped profile makes me feel as old as the news that the weird little man known as Prince needs a hip replacement.