The Essential Guide to turning 40

Well...what d'ya know..here I am again..

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 14 Jun 2010 00:23:00 +0800

Four long years have passed since my last post. I have been counting my bitter grudges and nurturing for a vengeful return. I am rearing for a fight and someone somewhere will pay and pay big. This time it will be an all out fight. I might be stooped with age and tottering under the panoramic array of little skirmishes that have betrayed my corporeal self, but I am strong of spirit and brave of heart.

I am 45 and blissfully pissed off...

Uncorporeal foe

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 20 Mar 2006 08:52:00 +0800

In my middle-aged fugue, someone does me harm.

Something uncorporeal is using me as its own private latrine for its dysenteric ways. Somebody without a telephone number or gonads that I can unleash my fury upon. Someone without a garden that I can crap on or windows I can break.

I am permanently drenched in fourtysomething objectless resentments and grudges. I want to kick out at something and find my mark without falling flat on my face.

Pathological Paragon

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 14 Dec 2005 03:35:00 +0800

Suck a little too hard on a ciggie and you are bound to rent something in your throat. A little cough can rape you violently and a sneeze threatens to lop your head off. Loose a little sleep and all manner of illness curry the flavour of your miserable existence. Do a little exercise and you are greeted by an encyclopaedic range of pains and aches.

Your back is in a terminal case of giving up for good and your feet are best friends with the most unmentionable of fungi. Your nose sprouts enough hair to trap bugs for its carnivorous fancies and your ears turn entrepreneurial with their gum factories. Scales fissure your lips and your tongue is invariably dressed up and ready to exit its unenviable abode.

And I prefer not to talk about my knees..

Three days to my 41st birthday and I am a fourty something year old pathological paragon.

My clan

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 3 Oct 2005 07:23:00 +0800

Poking about my fogshrouded greybleary past, I have been casting anectodal glances at the deaths of my life. You know.. giving my stock of remembrance a bit of a stir... recounting the dead I once knew. Shucks.. I am nearing my expiry date myself. Thought I will refresh my memory you know. Give the rolldeck dedicated to my once-weres a bit of a spin!

Not a lot that will incite any measure of envy and conjecture. But my own lot you know. My dynasty. My clan.

The exercise is an incontrovertible example of a slow drift into a fourty something morbid hell. Alarmingly enough, the reaper lurks in the coldgrey shadows of my dead.

RAM me

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 28 Jul 2005 15:25:00 +0800

It is funny how the little things keep slipping away from you. Some loiter in the front garden of your memory gradually becoming invisible and shimmying out unnoticed through the gates of oblivion. Others go with a sudden pop. (At least I reckon they must go with an audible pop - like in the cartoons I so love!) Leaving only faint clues to their existence. If at all. Clues that would eventually drive you mad. Like breadcrumbs that lead nowhere. Like an unsolvable puzzle created by some smugfaced pimply teenager.

And if they do lead you somewhere, you find a yawing nothingness. You trace your obscure memory farts only to find an absence. An absence of a memory, an ambition, a thought you might have once had!

You are buggered on all sides. Most of all by your aged RAM working with a clunky hard disk drive.

Synchronicity

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 28 Jul 2005 13:20:00 +0800

You have to admit. The collective display of synchornicity and creativity by God and his chum the Devil is quite astounding. Leave the poor fuckers alone for fourty years of their lives and then whip them away from their pathetic existence and stick a huge blinding sign into their skulls proclaiming - "I am forty something and I know not of any meaning to my life and as a child of the devil I am full of only desolation and despair. Pray do not make me suffer my another winter in this living hell."

Middle aged

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 27 Jul 2005 11:48:00 +0800

So...the medley of forty-something ills, that so delightfully contrive to bugger you up, can be all bunched under the euphomism 'middle-aged'? Perhaps.. but I dont see anything too middle-nothing about this punch-aged poverty. Having pretty names given to the absolute dereliction of everything human is the reason why we welter so serenely in this trough of misery.

The anatomy of choice

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 24 Jul 2005 01:08:00 +0800

Oh..to loiter through life inconspicously. Without the dubious delight of the clouds parting for you with its customary cliche of deliverance and light.

You live your life carelessly trespassing all manner of alternatives without a thought. And then you hit forty. The damn clouds do their dirty trick on you. And wham! You cant seem to go anywhere without stepping into big whopping turds. Everywhere you look, there are an encyclopaedic range of whoppers. Nothing seem to be easy anymore. There are only questions. Of every hue, weight and stink. No more is the uninspected carefree trespassing. Gone are the unweighed happy choices.

It is when you have been adled by forty years of living are you lumbered with the humbling questions. It just makes everything so much less jaunty you know. None of the usual bounce.

Depraved

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 22 Jul 2005 10:36:00 +0800

Mephistopheles..heh... fucking brilliant!

Has that spannered you some? Made you rush for an exit click?

What is really gonna bake your noodle is whether:

1. Mephistopheles exercises his evil by condemning innocents to an eternity of suffering and pain by turning them into 40 something year olds.

2. it is a pact God made with the devil to checkout souls to the dark side ( as fodder for the devil's army of the undead) at the age of 40 as long as the latter keeps his hands off the human race before the aforementioned uncelebratory buggered time. I guess, God figured that there is no saving anyone with 40 years of earthly turpitude.

3. turning 40 itself is an expression of the highest evil. An expression of stooping to the lowest of all possible lows.

Of course, with the advent of time, since Devil plucked his first succulent-ripe forty year old, point two has come to resemble point three.

And I am starting to believe this shit. If I make this hypothesis palatable enough and jam it down the face of enough thirty something year olds, I might just incite mass hysteria. Yeow!!

Mephistopheles

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 21 Jul 2005 22:47:00 +0800

What if the devil was not the teethy, horny, forked tailed, boil suppurating, vermin, that we make him out to be. What if Mephistopheles descended upon earth in the shape of 'turning 40'? Yeah. Why does the devil always resemble Christopher Lee or a giant spider with blood red eyes or something similar with a suitable accompanying theme music? Why does Freddie Kruger, Montgomery Burns, He-who-should-not-be-named-Voldemort and possessed eight year olds have monopoly on Lucifer? Why cant he be an abstract concept like eating a hamburger or bdsm-ing? It might not quite fly with Hollywood but hey..

Think about it! I want a bad guy to shape my heroic demeanour. Mephistopheles will do! He shall have his henchman and I my hot babe! He shall be the depraved, insidious, malevolent creature with foul gum disease and I will be the handsome masked hero!

Let the games begin!

Nippled Out

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 21 Jul 2005 18:05:00 +0800

I do love running. It is my little vacation away from life, awash as it is at the moment with forty something mindcramps.

There is a special quality about running. It whips me up quite bad. It has a perverted casual way with my gonads. And it plays awful games with my insides. Not to mention serious malign with my legs and feet. But it is a doddle. Easy Peasy. Hell, I challenge it to do its worst.

What it does do is it releases the barometer-busting pressure in my head! That's what it does. It gets me away from forty something hell.

I have one issue with it though. I have a falling out not with its kaledoscopic range of little pains and injuries it rains upon me. I only take exception with one teensy weensy thing.

The serious damage it wreaks upon my nipples. Bugger that!

Where did I go wrong?

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 21 Jul 2005 18:01:00 +0800

The Nipple Dance

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 21 Jul 2005 12:56:00 +0800

I have noticed lately that my nipples are aquiver. Drawing little caricatures in the gap between them and the garment that I religiously wear to hide my ignominy.

There is a rubbery nature about them. A preternatural bounce that reminds me of slowmo baywatch babes. It is rather disturbing..

What am I to do?

Balmy

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 20 Jul 2005 20:53:00 +0800

Yup.. I am not quite the full dozen anymore. It is like this I guess. 40 years of all manner of abuse. You slip up you know. The world gets to you.

One very odd thing is that I see all kinds of ominous going-ons around me. It is like the wool has suddenly been pulled away from my eyes and, there! Right before me! Another story is being enacted. A different play is going on. The other end of conspiracy. An unveiling of sorts.

My own prophetic sight. Deranged and mysterious. I see duality in representation. Two simultaneous enactment of life intersecting and generating little landmarks of things to come.Symbols where there aren't. Meanings where there are none to be found. My very own madgenius vision.. I turned forty into an oracle.

But then it could all be just be a propensity for all things metaphysical. I want to see meaning and symbols where there are none. 40 years knowing yogis and holymen on first name basis can do you in. Send me straight to the madhouse if I am not careful.

When a detached wing of a butterfly ominously floats into my balcony one fair evening, I bugger myself with panic. Oh dear..

Radio SICK

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 20 Jul 2005 15:46:00 +0800

My radio is picking up secrets. It whispers to me with an all knowing voice when I am not looking. It tells me things that I care not an iota for.

It is a real bastard when you are being dicked around by your own radio. It has not the courtesy to consider my fortysomething fragile makeup. It doesn't effin shut up.

I have tweaked the knobs on it violently. I have shaken it some. I have tried making faces at it. I have even considered either chucking it into the nearest bin or washing it with some soap and water.

One thing it does not volunteer is a response, which I guess is nice of it. And it can go on for days without a single whisper.

Every now and then though it comes out with an absolute horror.

"You have just bloody turned forty havent you!".

"Get an effin life mate. There aint much time left."

Would you put up with that? I am going effin balmy?

Canker Wanker

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 19 Jul 2005 11:23:00 +0800

And so it passes that I gather enough courage to agree to a game of squash one fine evening not too long ago. It was a day when the air was dischargeheavy with energypopping contagion. Something was up but the squishnumb activity around me knocked the questionmark right out. And it seems it jarred all sense out of my feeble mind in a nimble doublewhammy applausebuttoned number.

SQUASH! Was I out of my ageblistered mind? Has banging around in a lockedempty vault affected my brain so?

It is always a surprise I guess. Only yesterday it seems I was taking the best on with ease. It came easy to me although the game itself never held any lasting attraction. I was everywhere and nowhere. I was in and out, left and right , forward and back all at the same time. I had one over elan and dexterity. I was the multilimbed muchhrevered god of SQUASH.

But I was set to figure things out the difficult way. The only way. FInd out about the canker that sets in after twoscores years of bodily toll. At one stage during the ordeal, my right shoulder was playing buggers with my game. It felt like the damn thing had come to its senses and was trying to flee its cankerous abode. It gave up trying to stretch my shoulder and started working its way out through my arse. Such was the nature of the screechviolent pain that distended through my body.

At this time I was reduced to a whimpering shadow of myself hurdled in a corner of the court, steering foul words from four different languages into new dashing combinations. The knees and ankles had long dropped off. Something was sticking a hot poker between the third and fourth lumber in my lower back.

Bugger this!

If I can avoid that tack, I am ahead of the game already

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 19 Jul 2005 10:27:00 +0800

Bugger this!

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 19 Jul 2005 10:26:00 +0800

Any more of this and I will need psychiatric care..

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 18 Jul 2005 23:40:00 +0800

Online dick docs

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 18 Jul 2005 21:42:00 +0800

And as if it isn't bad enough.

It seems like the whole bloody world knows. And it is hunked down in rosaried prayer to get my dick in all sorts of dickworthy trouble. Check out the names below. Recognise any? These are but the selection of weirdos who have suddenly started offering me Viagara and Cialis in every kind of distorted email id permutation as they can muster ( why the hell is the Realtor Envious??). And believe me when I tell you. This onslaught of psychoelectronic garbage to undermine my hallowed plumbing has been going on exactly 7 months and one day to this day. The day I hit bottom.

Provoked M Nostradamus
Ohioans Q. Castration
Maschocism R Becquerel
Coursed F. Charioteer
Invitation C.Alphabet
Miscalculation M Treachery
Envious F Realtor
Misslery
Calibre S Abdications
Submarines R Relations
69khoanh
Whinniest H Hecuba
Skullcap a Panty
Spongiest K Rhymes

My intrepid self

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 18 Jul 2005 18:53:00 +0800

It is awful. Apparently I have turned some kind of corner. Straight into hell.

Twoscore and a bit years brings you around to this particular horror. When women scarce glance your way and when they do you cannot but note the horror on their faces. And if it is not horror, it is either pity or disgust. A look of censure descends upon them. Their jawline tightens. The head is lowered. They wish me to stop soiling their view and scrub me out in disapproval.

It happened just yesterday. An acquaintance I met some time back. Not a close friend. Just someone I knew before I got myself into my present particular cesspool. She was amiable enough then. Yesterday she hardly looked at me. Her smiling face smiled not at me. Her beaming countenance disappeared behind a lowered head everytime she faced me ( it can be argued whether she looked at me at all). It was weird and heartbreaking.

What a victim I am!

When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held..

Bugger!

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 18 Jul 2005 18:35:00 +0800

Sulk

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 16 Jul 2005 17:06:00 +0800

I have been hitherto firmly sheltered under the delusion that if I ignore my age long enough it will sulk and leave the premises. This only works for as long as people around you allow you to. These days, with all that beer and smoking and lack of exercise ,I have gone away and unravelled the sweet asian delusion I had going for myself. You know the way the fellas around here can look so young and all. When you are forty you have but to let your defences down for a stinking shimmering moment and lo and behold, you are raped violently into looking your age and feeling it to boot. Buggeration!

Essential guide to being 40, Turning forty, forty something, age, health, gay, Men's guide, turning thirty,

Forty?

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 16 Jul 2005 12:55:00 +0800

So here I am, fourty something and buggered by a shocking array of large numb pricks of ageing consequence. And I cant even spell the effin number 40. It is not fourty you fuckwit.
Turning fourty, forty years old, how to age essential guide, great guide to everything forty

Let the frazzle begin

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 16 Jul 2005 01:47:00 +0800

Throaty-metal! My life unfurled briefly before me this afternoon, tickled to claustrophobic demeanour by the pinpricks of a metal bit in my throat. Tearstained and bloodrushed eyes glared back at me as I carefully gauged the dimensions of the tiny passage to a tight-holed hell I was on. "Not like this," I said to myself. "Not bloody like this".

As I write this hours later, I try quickstepping my way away from the memory prompts of the above episode. In vain! Turning forty does not strum the tunes of blithe metal-swallowing, it-cant-hurt-me and how-bad-can-it be insouciance. My mind tripping into a throat-clawing panic had the big four zero to thank for. The next guy I hear saying 'you have to take care of your health now that you are forty' is getting buggered by my metal-tipped boots. I wish for myself a little carefreeness when it comes to my health. Turning forty should be played out with a prescription of the altogether elusive chill pill.