I've been thinking about mortality lately (must be the birthday), and I'd like to publically apologize to the future me in the unlikely even that I allow myself to live past the age of 50. So here goes:
Sorry, future-me, for smoking all those years. That lung cancer is going to suck. I have no excuse, except that while some people were telling us it was bad for us, cooler people were telling us that it was an awesome thing to do and would make us good-looking to women.
Sorry, future-me, for smoking all those cigars like they were cigarettes in aught-eight. In my defense, I could have taken up cigarettes again, and that would have been bad, but I chose to smoke 2, 3, 4, 5 cigars a night instead to calm my nerves. That throat cancer is going to suck, but hopefully you'll think talking through an esophageal squawk box is as cool as I think it is now.
Sorry, future-me, for drinking so much. Your liver is going to be completely useless, I know. I have no excuse, I could blame my alcoholic father, or his alcoholic father, but fuck it. Self-medication is the way of the Marlboro man, and men aren't supposed to be depressed. They are supposed to be drunk and beat their women. In my defense I have only loved women, not beaten them. I know, you'd probably prefer in retrospect that they suffered instead of you, but I'm not that guy.
Sorry, future-me, for the years I spent taking increasingly larger amounts of LSD. Those chemicals can't have any positive long-term effects, and someday they might all come back, flooding into my system from whatever spinal joint they've been holed up in all this time and make me insane. Although an insane person with a squawk box might be pretty cool.
Sorry, future-me, for all the women I have slept with and will sleep with. I'm clean now, so we've got that going for us, so we'll just consider this to be a sort of "sorry in advance" thing in case anything comes up. I'll certainly be more discriminate and careful about what I put my body in than I have been about what I put in my body, however, so maybe we'll be OK.
Sorry, future-me, for riding my motorcycle so fast, for skydiving, and bungee-jumping. Hell, you may never even get to experience life.
Maybe that's a good thing though, given everything else I've put you through...
